So I was 15 years old and walking home from school. Lady Godiva hair down to my butt. J-Lo booty, that is. Five foot nine. Embarassingly tight jeans. Push-up bra. And a big honkin' backpack.
J. A. I. L. B. A. I. T. Clearly.
And this car pulls up beside me. "Hey baby! What's your name?" I glance up. This guy who looks about forty is in a big redneck truck. Well, he was black, so I guess redneck isn't the right word, but you get the picture. Anyway, he pulls over and asks again. I smile & nod & keep walking.
"You know you're gorgeous?"
You know you're old and creepy? I say, "Thanks," and keep walking. But now he's driving and two miles per hour talking to me through the passenger window, and I have
nowhere to go.
"Can I take you out sometime?"
Seriously? I stop.
"Don't you think I'm a little young for you?"
"It's okay.
I'm a prison guard. I'm safe."
Does that mean he's got a gun? Is he constantly around vile and violent people? Why would he think a kid would see that as a plus?
I walk faster. He keeps rolling alongside me on the shoulder of the road.
"I see. Sorry. I can't."
"Come on. Can't I at least have you number?"
"Yeah. No. I don't really give that out."
"We can talk. You can get to know me. You'll see. I'm a good guy. I've got a badge and everything. I've taken girls like you out before."
"Um. Sorry."
"Come on. Just give me your number, and I'll leave you alone."
If he followed me any further, he'd see where I lived. So I smiled, gave him a fake number, and said it was nice to meet him. I figured that he'd be less suspicious and wouldn't keep following if he thought I was looking forward to it. It worked. He turned his truck around and went on his way.
The school was exactly one mile down my street, but from then on, I walked a couple of blocks back into the neighborhood and wove through it with different routes. My parents didn't understand why I didn't want to walk down the main road anymore. People honked and whistled all the time - I claimed to have a fan club. I was, of course, being sarcastic - I didn't think I was all that and a box of chocolates, just that guys were creeps who'd hit on anyone. Which is pretty much true.
It hasn't changed all that much, except now I get qualifiers like last week's, "Dang, you look good for having four kids." You know what? The last half of that sentence didn't have to be said. I know I've got post-pregnancy flab. When someone says something like that, I hear, "Hey, your face is pretty, but your gut looks like you've got a butt in the front, too."
So, thank you, fellas. And congratulations. You still know how to absolutely suck at hitting on chicks.
