Point and shoot

Memo to the Man on the Street: These headlights are not pointing at you.

It’s 95 degrees outside and my party hats will still be on. Get over it. I was born this way. Well not necessarily born that way, but as close as you can get to it. And if I’m wearing a skirt, it’s not because I woke up this morning and decided I’m going to do the bicycle messengers of this world a favor by showing some leg.

You’re just sayin’ hello, doing it to make me feel good, what’s the big deal, so you say? My self esteem is no danger of being low and as it is, I’m getting married in November. My husband will be contractually obliged to say hello to me and make me feel good about myself everyday.

I have Kathy Bates/Fried Green Tomatoes-type moments, where in my crazy little internal film I become Superwoman. I'm gonna take on the world and tell every street heckler and harasser to just shut the fuck up. I don’t know what’s more insulting: that my enjoyment of the day and sense of space is infringed upon by a smart aleck comment, or the sight/smell of the person throwing the alleged compliment out there?

But then I fear those could turn more into Kathy Bates/Misery-ish moments. And since I prefer not to do time for assault, I strive to be philosophical about it all. If evolution dictates that the size of your brain is smaller the size of these nips, I suppose I can forgive that and walk on by.