I was walking into the bank yesterday in my leggings and long form fitting sweater. The leggings were black. The sweater gray with black horizontal stripes; black belt and black flats accessorizing my look. My butt and boobs were tucked away.
This gentlemen – I use the term loosely – passed me and was looking at me oddly. He then says, “Wow. Look at that outfit. Look at that outfit.” Since I was having a less than secure day I kind of freaked out inside. What does that mean? Do I look bad? Do I look good? Is my look mediocre? Have you looked in the mirror lately pal? It seemed as though he had more to say, but before he could utter another word from his seemingly seedy lips, I ducked into the vestibule.
The rest of the day entailed me telling everyone who would listen about my momentary encounter with the stranger. I suppose I was looking for validation. I desperately needed someone to say, “your outfit is awesome! Nice! Super! ”
This was not the first time I have been in the presence of someone who thought it was necessary to let me know his or her feelings (which he didn’t really – he left it open to interpretation) about something that was really none of their business.
But maybe we need more of this. I mean, have you looked around lately?
Men in muscle shirts two sizes too small with very little muscle, women wearing clothes that leave nothing to the imagination and on some of these women imagination is needed.
I’ll admit it. When I was 20, 25, 30 and even 35 I walked around showing off as much of me as I possibly could. I had a great belly at one time and every chance I got, out came the midriff. I’d be at the bar or even the local corner store and I would get hit on or whistled at. After this came my incensement as to why no one took me seriously and why guys only just wanted to have sex with me.
Really? It took me all those years to finally get it. To get why the girls at the bar in the jeans and baggy t-shirts had boyfriends or husbands. To get why there never was a phone call the next day, or week or month for that matter, after having sex with someone less than twenty four hours after meeting.
I was nothing more than eye candy. If I had sex with you, then I was eye candy with the prize inside. But all in all, just something nice to look at. Like that freaky shirt in the window that looks awesome with it’s shiny studs and peacock colors, but the beige shirt is more practical and so that is the one we buy.
I can still wear clothes like that but I don’t want to. I realized that dressing like I am ready for my meeting at the local street corner still left me empty inside when I went home.
Men still check me out, and yeah, that feels nice sometimes. But men also take me seriously. More importantly, women take me seriously. I never had female friends in my twenties and early thirties. I thought it was because they were all bitches. Then I thought it was because I was unlikable. After I started putting some clothes on, I realized it was probably because I was unapproachable.