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Free to Be You & Me (and to Post Drivel)

Ah, the freedom of a doornail-dead blog. I can natter to my own pesky ego and pretend successfully that no one else is reading. Here, beloved ego -- here's a charming tale of something that happened to me on the subway a couple of months ago.

I was riding in the very last car of the #1, as I always do in order to get a seat, and a bunch of youts, as Joe Pesci would say, got on and started doing that teenage boy thing where god forbid they should actually sit together. A couple sit on one side of the car, and a few sit on the other (with the two groups carefully staggered, not directly across from each other), and a couple more just casually swing on the poles and bars like kids at recess, oscillating back and forth from one anchor group to the other. They were relatively subdued at first, then as the car emptied out they gradually got a little bit louder, and a little bit louder, and a little bit more. Never totally rowdy or anything, though.

I sat in my seat at the other end of the car and read my book, ignoring them completely, and they ignored me in return (in compliance with the unwritten social contract of the subway). By the time my stop rolled into view they were practically the only ones left in my car (one or two other stragglers, but that's all). I got up, gathering and stowing my various belongings, and just as I got off the train one of the youngest in the pack (he couldn't have been more than 16, although he looked about 12), swung around the pole closest to the open door and yelled, "Hey, show me your titties, fatass."

Hmm. Is it just me, or is this sending, shall we say, mixed messages? At the very least? He wants to see my tits, but he also thinks I'm fat? He wishes to both insult me and gain a sexual favor at the same time? Perhaps not the most promising approach to take. But of course, if we put on our "annoying nitpicky feminist" hats it actually makes perfect sense. In truth, he only has a single goal -- to humiliate me -- and both halves of his statement work seamlessly toward that objective. The first part is designed to remind me of my own sexuality (which as a modern American woman I am supposed to feel a reflexive shame for), and the second part is tacked on to make me feel fat. It's a one-two mindpunch.

I waited until the doors closed (so he couldn't jump out on the platform and beat me up -- I'm not a moron) and then, without looking back, flipped him off over my shoulder. The howls of outrage! That was not the proper reaction (I was actually breaking the unwritten social contract of the subway) and boy howdy, but he was pissed. Called me a bitch. You may have a point there, sir.