shaken and [di]stirr[b]ed

about twenty minutes ago I had one of the most unsettling encounters of my life. the only other times my insides have been a-roiling were when I visited a mental hospital in romania, and when some crossroads friends and I were in that car accident in february. but this time, I feel personally and emotionally attacked.

I was waiting in line at barnes and noble when a man came up next to me and said, “excuse me, miss? that outfit looks very nice on you.” I said a very cautious thank you because something about his squinty brown eyes made my womanly instincts stiffen, but he walked away immediately and I was left to wonder if, as mom used to inform me during hours-long dressing room sessions, the outfit was a little “too nice.” I’m wearing a fairly form-fitting shirt whose neckline can ride down if I don’t pay attention, but upon a quick inspection, it proved to be providing superb coverage — and it’s certainly not gotten me stares before. then, my purple flowing Gypsy skirt from ireland that doesn’t cling at all and comes to my ankles. and flipflops. in other words, if he was a creep, mine was not the body upon which his eyes ought to prey.

but “ought to” is no recipe for action. I hadn’t made it two feet out of the store before he came up behind me and said in a very surprised tone, “oh! haha! we meet again!” I graced him with a half-smile and kept walking. “I hope you’re not upset that I’m talking to you,” continued El Creepo, “but I just couldn’t help staring. what’s your name?”

now at this juncture I hesitated, but deciding that he couldn’t do anything heinous with that information, told him. He said, “I’m stan” and I said, “nice to meet you,” which was a lie, but he wasn’t crowding my personal bubble and there were plenty of people around so I felt unjustified in picking up my ice queen crown. (why do I make it such a priority to Appear Nice to other people?)

then he said, “do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

I mentally glanced at my ice queen crown — definitely within reach. “You can ask me, but I may not answer.”

“well, I just couldn’t help noticing the way you’re built. and I was wondering, what size are you?”

that poor ice queen crown got the fright of its life then, because it went from a few months’ slumber on a dusty shelf of my psyche to the very top of my head in about point-three seconds. “that I do not feel comfortable answering,” said I, and walked faster. “alright!” said his voice, now a few steps behind me. “I’m sorry. have a good day.”

“you too,” I said, and kept walking. and he went his separate way and I’m sure I’ll never see him again. but I have never been so overtly objectified in my life. my conscience can’t even utter a “tsk tsk — this is why we wear modest clothes!” because I am. to those of my friends who have experienced actual sexual abuse, my encounter must seem laughably insignificant, and that makes me cry for you because this is significant, and your wounds are even deeper. and I’m truly sorry if this story is like sand in those wounds, but at the same time, I’m so angry and devastated and now I understand just a tiny bit of what you have survived. when perverted, the most beautiful things — like a husband’s delight in his wife — are sickening.

I wish I hadn’t told him my name.