Every day I walk out of my apartment hopeful and happy; grateful for the gift of another day—until I receive the inevitable comment or two from a man I don’t know from Adam. The comment is usually about my appearance: my rack, my hair, my height…something.
I suppose it’s flattering. I guess they think that they’re doing me a favor. It doesn’t matter if it’s the toothless grungy guy who sleeps in the stairwell near the subway or if it’s the cute Wall Street type with a secret coke habit (wow, way to stereotype, huh?) I just feel uncomfortable with being stared at and receiving commentary on my appearance. It’s weird. I’m not a knockout as far as I am concerned. I’m pretty enough and my confidence shines through, but it’s not my greatest gift to the world, ya know? I’m most proud of my intellect and my spirit. You’re not gonna hear some guy say, ‘Hey, you wacky, intelligent woman! I want to get to know you because you’re smart as hell!’ are ya?
Eh, I’ve had to be with it for a little while.
It really is the thought that counts. They’re thinking that they’re being complimentary.
From now on, I’m just gonna smile and say “Have a great day!”…I can’t say thank you because my parents created me. Maybe I’ll have Mom send out cards.