Tuesday, 13 March 2012

I just like typewriters.


Yesterday I was sick and bummed around the house like a listless idiot, floundering. Suddenly, a van screamed into the driveway - parcels! I opened the door and was dismayed. The delivery guy was a creep. Chicks know when guys are being creeps, straight away. BAM. It's a sixth sense we have, having walked this earth with boobs for many years.

I made my face go as blank and non-responsive as I could. I talked like a robot, signed, then shut the door. It was two parcels - one containing a bevy of the latest Garnier products, the other was some books that my kindred Madam Bipolar had sent.

There was another knock at the door. I knew it was the delivery guy still standing there because I hadn't heard his van careen out of the driveway. So annoying. I open the door again, to his leery smile. You know how some guys make you feel naked, and not in a good way? Yeah. I wanted to punch this dude out so hard, grind his skull into the marks of the driveway he'd made when he burst into my space.

"I forgot this one!" It was hard not to show excitement at that parcel ... it was the Condom Dress I ordered after reading the posts by Mrs Woog and Nikki from Styling You.

As I signed again, I felt his eyes boring into me. Looked up, and he's staring at my d├ęcolletage. With a smile.

"So." He leans on my doorframe and gets all comfortable. (He's allowed to do that because he has a dick.)

"So, what's the significance of the typewriter?"

I just looked at this guy. Wanted to say, "YOUR FACE!" Nearby plants began to droop, such was the energy force around my aura in that moment.

"I just like typewriters."

He looked at me, speaking slowly. "You just .. like .. typewriters?"

My aura then turned purple and grabbed HIS aura by the balls and tied them around his neck. He must've sensed something, because in a POOF he was gone.

I shut the door and gave him the finger.

There was a time, years ago .. when I would have stood there and answered all of his questions. And smiled shyly and uncomfortably at his blatant lasciviousness. Girls are taught to be polite and good ... it took my twenties to shake the polite and good out of myself. I'm so glad I did.

A few months back, Alice Bradley from Finslippy wrote one of the best blog posts of all time. I keep thinking about it. Called "On being an object, and then not being an object."

It contains pearlers like this:

"I am 42. I am middle aged. Being middle aged renders you invisible to the kinds of creeps who dole out harassment, so you're mostly left alone. I'm really enjoying it ... to be a young woman in our culture means that you exist, from an alarmingly young age, for the appreciation of others. Therefore, your every feature is fair game for public appraisal."

This next bit blew my mind:

"It means you can't look sad or even neutral in public because a stranger, a man, will inevitably order you to smile."

TINK ... I suddenly remembered being a young woman, getting told over and over again - by men - to smile. What did I do? I smiled. It was polite.

Interesting that as I reach a time where my looks will be gradually fading, I feel the most powerful and secure. If a guy tries to engage in some banter, some uncomfortable questions I don't like, I don't have to engage. Simple as that.

And if the delivery guy googles my name, he will come here and know exactly why I like typewriters.



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Write to be understood, speak to be heard. - Lawrence Powell

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