Shame

Walking into my office building I start off well. My shoulders back, my spine straight, I step out of my car gracefully and strut myself up to the door. I look my best in the morning, my make-up is perfect, my hair curls just right, my clothes are pressed and fit just the way they should. I like the sound of my heels clicking on the pavement and the sound of my clothes swooshing as my hips swish. The beginning half of my walk from car to desk is the time when I really like being a woman, when I really feel confident and ready to face everything.

And then I hit the halfway point, and with it, George. George is an older man who works in our warehouse. He works the night/morning shift so when I'm coming in to work he's just about ready to leave. He takes his last ten minute break just a little before 8AM and he spends it standing in the hall with a cup of coffee and a comment.

"Well isnt it just my lucky day. Good morning beautiful."

"Good morning sweetie. I like that skirt on you, gorgeous girl."

"Now my days complete since the stunning Katy has come in."

And so on and so forth. Everyday there's George with another comment, another adjective for pretty, another crooked smile and another lascivious, but hidden, stare. And everyday the instant I see him I deflate. I feel my shoulders fall in an effort to hide my breasts. I try to walk on my toes in order to keep my heels from clicking on the floor. My eyes hit the floor, my arms draw in close and cover me. And for the rest of the day I have to fight from slumping down in my chair and hiding my face under my hair.

It's a feeling you can't name, but you know it's there. All George has ever done, to my face, has greeted me and given me a compliment. Every interaction we've ever had seems benign, safe, nice even. What woman doesn't want to be told that she's lovely? That she looks nice? Why on earth would I spend all that time with make-up and hair if I didn't want people to notice that I was a pretty girl.

And yet his comments make me feel small. They make me feel like hiding under my coat collar. Is it the way he looks at me, or in the way his voice sounds, something about the way he is always there that makes me feel frightened, little, incapable? Suddenly being attractive, even being noticeable, is a hindrance to everything. Not just to my competence, my intelligence, but to my ability to walk down a hallway.

Sometimes I think it's because I know what men say when women aren't around. I know what George talks about when he stops watching me walk down the hall and turns to his buddy. Sometimes I think that's just a cover up. The fact is I'm harassed, diminutized, violated - and it's worse because know one can see it. No one would ever know, or believe, how bad it feels.

And I can't blame them either. I've been that woman who scoffs at harassment charges. I've turned down my nose at girls who just don't know how to take a compliment, or worse, don't know how to play the game. I fear being the same woman I turn away from, I fear the fact that I could define myself as the "politically correct bitch" if I ever spoke up.

But after I smile shyly, say a hurried good morning to George, I feel my chest constrict and tears prick my eyes. I feel bound inside myself. It's as though he won some battle over my position, over my psyche. He even managed to influence my body - and he has never touched me. I can fantasize, outside of work, turning around and telling him to stop. Using my loudest, strongest voice to chastise him. Let him know it's just not acceptable, that I'm not his to look at, I'm not his to want. But in the building, he has me - there might as well be a gun stuck down my throat for all the words I can create.

So instead I go into work early. I look for his car when I'm walking through the parking lot. I wear big coats to hide in. I take the long way around the office to get to my desk. When I see him I panic, when he has his back turned I have to fight the need to run.

And it makes me more ashamed of myself than anything I've ever done. And even more afraid.