Dear Pen Friend,

How are you? How’s your story of life coming along? It was nice to hear my words found you. Let’s see how today’s griefancy hits you! This one is layered and slightly complicated, as all the others seem to be, eh? But, Wednesday, on my walk to work, it became clear that now is the perfect time to talk about this one…because the era is by and large past (and before I forget it all…☺).

It was a beautiful day outside, so I took my favorite commute to work: Walk for 2 miles to the ferry terminal, ride on the upper level and soak in the view of Manhattan from the water, then walk another 20 minutes to my office. During my 20-minute walk across Manhattan, I encountered a situation both enjoyable…and slightly sad.

There used to be an old diner on 43rd and 11th called The Market Diner. I had breakfast there countless times during the 10 years I lived at 43rd and 9th. It was a “locals” kind of place – tourists never went that far west – especially in the 90s (it was kinda seedy, but I loved it anyway). They were open 24 hours, and the food was cheap, plentiful, and Diner Delicious. I have very fond memories of meals shared there. I was sad when I saw the chain link fence and construction signs engulf it last year. I knew it soon would become another ghostly memory of mine, buried under a nondescript high-rise.

Wednesday, I noticed how much of the new structure had been erected – seemingly overnight. I also noticed that all the construction workers were on their lunch breaks, and they were seated on the sidewalk in front of me, like a gauntlet to be braved. My inner dialogue was a sarcastic, ‘Here we go!’, anticipating the comments and inappropriate behavior about to come my way. For the 25 years that I’ve lived in The City, I’ve done a litany of things to avoid walking past construction sites. I’ve never found the ensuing rhetoric charming, and so I actively removed myself from it when I could. Do you have this problem where you are? In short, they’re known for their catcalls.

When I saw them all seated there in their orange safety vests, hardhats on their laps, and steel-toed work boots facing me, I initially thought about turning around and taking 42nd Street to work, instead. I don’t enjoy weaving through tourists (as they move slower than I), but in that moment the diminished pace was preferable to the mile of potentially mouthy men stretched out in front of me. I envisioned them feeding upon one another’s energy, egging each other on until I couldn’t help but absorb their noise, filled with sexual innuendo.

As I stood there deciding which route to take, I thought about the first time I remember feeling objectified. I was 12, and in my hometown. My sister and I were walking to a store without my mom, who was grocery-shopping near by. It was a little strip mall area, filed with a variety of mom and pop businesses. I still remember the delicious apple fritters I could find in The Bake Shop. I’ve never found any as good, and that shop is long gone….

What was I saying? I got lost in a great food memory. Do you ever have those, Dear Friend? It was yum.

Oh, right….my sister and I….

We were walking past the liquor store (which was next to those heavenly fritters) when a small, middle-aged man appeared seemingly from nowhere. He positioned himself between my sister and me, and turned his face to me. He slowly sniffed me over and said, “You are so very beautiful.” Then he gazed lustfully at me, drank in my scent again, shook his head, and walked away. By the time the shock wore off, he’d disappeared – as if he’d never even been there.

In my memory, my sister and I stood stunned on the sidewalk. Neither one of us could process what had happened. First of all, it was creepy, weird, startling, and odd. Secondly, and this was maybe the larger point, I was the younger sister, and I looked like a child still. I wasn’t really on the other side of puberty yet, and definitely not viewed as the beauty in my family. That was my sister. She was 17 at the time – and stunning. Men noticed her all the time, and some of them even told me about their lust for her.

Picture this: It’s after church on a Sunday morning. We’ve just had our pastor counsel us on the wages of sin for an hour, and now we’re in the hallways saying our goodbyes to one another, and slowly parting ways. A married man with five young children approaches me. He’s shorter than I by a few inches, but uses physical proximity for power, where a taller man might have used his height. He sidles up very closely to me, looks at me from head to toe as if he were judging a slab of meat he’d like to ingest, and says, “You’re alright…but you’re sister…” And then he proceeded to moan, wet his lips with his tongue, and moan again.

He’d just cannibalized my sweet sister in front of me. And he felt it was appropriate to share that daydream with me. And for decades it’s been one of my recurring nightmares.

Those two events were fairly close together, and they told me I was to be a man’s object for the rest of my life. And I didn’t like it. It felt wrong to me, and like I wasn’t human. And, on top of that, it was all so confusing.

I had feelings other than repulsion, which blew my mind and caused great guilt. First, I felt slightly jealous that Tiny Church Man rated my sister as so much more delectable than I. And then, I felt triumphant that Creepy Sidewalk Man chose me over her when we were both right next to him. I was tired of being the less pretty sister. But overall, neither of those feelings made sense to me. Both men were disgusting and I was relieved when they were gone.

Wednesday, walking the gauntlet of construction guys, I felt confused. Then elated. Then disappointed. And finally, completely relieved.

In short: The construction workers said nothing to me. Zero. Zilch. They didn’t even look up from their lunch pails in any significant way. As I passed the first few without incident, I noticed the others didn’t even look up from their laps. It was as if the sentries on the end had allowed me to pass, so no others need concern themselves with me. Initially I was confused. Here I had braced myself for a long half block of the wrong kind of attention, and I was met with silence. What?

Then, I was elated. I thought, ‘Maybe we’ve come far enough that men have evolved past this kind of behavior – finally!’ But then a younger, more-supple girl than I entered the block. They weren’t as rude as I remember them being, so maybe there has been some progress, but they certainly gave her the kind of attention I had been bracing myself for.

And then, disappointment set in when I remembered why they weren’t turning their attention my way. I actually think the matter has been best discussed by Amy Schumer, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Tina Fey, and Patricia Arquette in the sketch “The Last F#@kable Day”. While the choice of vernacular may not be your taste, Dear Pen Friend (or it may be….), the point of the sketch completely describes my experience (although the common man decided in my case). You should pull it up on YouTube.

Ultimately, though, I’m relieved. I don’t need to fear walking past a gaggle of men now. They don’t see me anymore. I have aged and that has made me largely invisible to them….and I’m relieved. My griefancy today is for that 12-year-old me who became objectified. I’ve never taken time to look at how those two men – and many others after – looked at me (or a female I loved) as something to be ingested or owned. And I didn’t like it. Unfortunately, though, I had to deal with it.

But now, I don’t anymore – and that’s freeing.

That’s not to say it won’t happen sporadically here and there still, though. Recently a man at work and I were chatting. I’ve known him for a while, and he’s always been perfectly respectful. Out of nowhere, though, he blurted out, “You are so sexy.” Immediately he apologized in embarrassment. (He also hasn’t been able to make eye contact with me since.) I appreciate that he respected the fact that it wasn’t an appropriate thing to say to me. And I wish he hadn’t said it because now our casual conversations have ceased, and they were often interesting.

Truth to tell, though, I was flattered that he said it when he did. (I looked awful that day in my opinion, and so it felt nice to think I wasn’t visually polluting the world.) That’s what makes the whole thing confusing, you know? I didn’t want to feel any positive feelings. My little 12-year-old was instantly mad – and betrayed…but she also understands. She remembers feeling creepy and elated at the same time. It’s a weird space to reconcile. But on this occasion, I wasn’t scared or disgusted – just disappointed that now the work guy feels slightly like Creepy Sidewalk Man and Tiny Church Man to me. Sigh.

The good news after studying this griefancy? I feel fairly secure knowing that as summer in The City progresses, most men will be seeking younger prey than I.

And for that, I am grateful. Maybe now that little 12-year-old inside can relax. She’s safe. This middle-aged woman has got her covered. Literally. With protective grey hair and continually less-supple skin. And, I wear it all proudly and joyfully. Walking around invisibly can feel pretty good!

Until next time….