On this very day I was walking in downtown Redding. A “gentleman” who seemed to have decided flannel pajama bottoms only was the exact right outfit for the day was sharing the sidewalk with me.
“Hey sexy mamma.”
He was either talking to me, or the pleasant looking gma who was ahead of us waiting to cross at the light.
Everyone has to establish their course of interaction with folks downtown. Generally, I’m not afraid to say hello. Even if I haven’t been called “sexy mamma.” So I said hello and we continued on the path to the crosswalk.
“I like your tattoo. What does it mean?”
“Thank you. It means ‘to learn'”
Without missing a beat he asserts, “Learn to foot fuck?”
Followed promptly by “Show me your toenails!”
In between fits of laughter I was able to tell him that it REALLY doesn’t mean “learn to foot fuck.”
“But, that’s like a fetish or whatever. Show me your feet.” There were other words. Utterances of attempted convincing. They were hard to track due to the unexpected absurdity of it all.
I felt that my continued engagement in the chat prevented gma from pulling out a gat and busting a cap in him.
Me to foot guy, “Do you know who Fred Flintstone is? Because that’s what my feet look like.”
He was undeterred from continuing to request to see my feet. I was undeterred in getting back to my office without allowing my foot to be,…uh…objectified.
I could’ve taken issue with his behavior. Told him, or someone else, that he made me feel “uncomfortable.” But I didn’t. I know that I am the master of my domain. The only thing I can control is my response. He did the creepy thing, I chose not to be a victim. I chose to be amused. “But he was inappropriate!” I hear you. But that’s totally based on objective interpretations of what makes makes one uncomfortable. I wasn’t uncomfortable.
Awful taste, but great execution, guy. Better luck next time.
Bifocals and Barbells 