SelfAbsorbed.ME : ‘It’s Your Life, We Just Write it Funnier’

So yesterday I was in Guitar Center shredding some major Aerosmith riffs on this killer Fender Strat…. Yeah that wasn’t gonna hold up for too long. Let me start over.

Yesterday I was in Guitar Center searching for a quiche recipe for dinner on my iPhone whilst my boyfriend shopped for a mounted tambourine for his drum kit. I was minding my own business, thoroughly engrossed in the AllRecipes app that doesn’t fucking work, when this salesguy walks past me with my boyfriend in tow, obviously meaning to show him one of the plethora of tambourines they offer.

As he’s passing me (someone clearly not in Guitar Center voluntarily), he goes, “What’s up, girl?” And I could tell this guy wasn’t hitting on me; this was simply his really hip way of saying “Can I help you?” Had he just said, “Can I help you?” the juxtaposition of such a normal, text book greeting may have drawn attention to the fact that he was over 40, covered in tattoos, and missing a crucial front tooth (and obviously, make him a “slave to the man.”) I’d also like to mention that his nametag said, “Raeph,” and it wasn’t even a typo for “Ralph.”

So in response to his brain teaser, “What’s up, girl?” I said, “Oh, I’m just waiting for him,” and gestured to my boyfriend. Then Raeph gets this major ‘tude, and says, in almost a teacherly way, “I asked you what’s up, not who you’re here with,” like I just gave a non-sequitur dumbass response to an academic question. Uhmmmm excuse moi? This guy reacted to my innocent reply as if I had just told him to go fuck himself, or as if the question was, “Who championed civil rights in the 1960s?” and I responded with, “Santa Claus.”

Are we in a nightclub? Does he think I’m deaf, and that maybe I did think he asked me who I’m here with? What a weird question to ask someone over the age 12 in a retail setting. 

I’m sure this guy’s unnecessary testiness at my response was just the result of being totally dissed by every girl he’s ever hit on, and partially the fact that he’s over 21, unattractive, and works at Guitar Center. His brusqueness was completely out of line though because A) he’s the one who approached me, B) my reply had not even a hint of sarcasm or bitchiness, and C) my answer did outline what, indeed, was up. I was waiting. And that’s all.

In fact, if anyone should’ve gotten nasty, it was me. I’m the customer! How dare you call me, “girl” like I’m your baby’s momma waiting in line at the ice cream truck? To be honest, I’m just thrilled that I wasn’t called “m’am” but that’s besides the point.

With this latest turn of freak warm weather, I was reminded of how horrifying it can be to walk the streets as a woman. Before the Guitar Center confrontation, I managed to go to the gym for the second day in a row (hooray!). Since it was unseasonably warm, I figured it would be okay to bike up to Crunch in my gym shorts and save myself the concern of sweatpants possibly getting tangled in the chain and ultimately causing a disfiguring injury.

As I was riding, I got no end of gross dudes shouting obscene things at me. Why? Because I have legs? And you can see them? Let’s not forget that I was going to the gym, and hence was unshowered and makeup-less, and this was occurring around 11am. As I’m going through the Fulton Street Mall area, which is quite crowded, one guy on the street who was handing out flyers (so technically, he’s at work) composed this thoughtful string of nonsense words to throw my way: “Yeah girl you go work out, you go work out that hot body, yeah girl!…”

Oh I will work out. And then I’ll take some kickboxing classes. And then the next time I see you and you say dumb shit to me, I’m gonna knock out the few teeth you have left.

I might understand this kind of response if I had huge boobs or any remarkably attractive features, or if I  was completely topless. Or if I was biking through a place where no one had seen a woman for fifty years, but somehow Brooklyn doesn’t seem the kind of place where men are suffering from a lack of exposed female parts. Go to any newsstand and there are magazines just filled with completely naked women for the ogling.

What do guys think will happen if they shout at random women? Do they think we’re all prostitutes and one must simply yell out their order, “Fries with a large shake!,” and then we’ll get naked or have sex with them? We’re not a fucking drive-thru McDonald’s, you assholes, stop yelling at us. People behaving this way make me fucking sick.

You never see handsome, good-looking guys in suits shouting at girls. I guess when you’re scrubby and gross you have nothing to lose by sexually harassing anything with legs as it speeds past you on the street. At one point this was such a problem that I considered investing in a taser, but it turns out they’re illegal in New York City, which is silly because some people just deserve to be tasered and I’ll be damned if the cops are ever around when you need them.

I almost dread the coming of warm weather, because while that means the freedom to wear skirts and shorts and, god forbid, expose a bit of skin on your arms or legs, it somehow also lures all the gross troll people out of wintry hibernation and onto the streets to shout at you. There’s no way I’m giving up my right to dress like a girl, so in the meantime, I’ll just have to carry a SuperSoaker filled with lemon juice and hairspray.

[image from monkeybriefs.com]