Don’t Get Me Started… is exactly as it sounds. This column is a space to explore all the things that linger in my mind that, if asked, I will absolutely get started about. Expect anything from the nuances of the human experience, commentary on TV shows I find poignant, and the occasional unfiltered rant about whatever has been on my mind for far longer that it should have. Hope you enjoy!
Don’t get me started on the universal fear of existing. The title might sound a bit dramatic but ask any woman if they have ever felt unsafe for just existing and the answer would be a resounding yes.
You walk past an older man; he looks you up and down and flashes that sleazy smirk that many of us know all too well. He calls out to you, but you ignore it. Your pace quickens—what if he follows you? He is still calling out to you but it’s getting quieter with every fear-fuelled step. It was winter, my arms and legs covered by a jumper and loose jeans. The moment I saw him sitting in the distance, I reduced the natural sway of my hips to a rigid, uncomfortable stride. Not because I knew he was going to say something but out of habit from all the times it had happened before.
It was not my feminine figure that provoked him; I was baring no skin. It was not the seductive movement of my walk that provoked him; I was walking inhumanly to avoid such remarks. It was my existence that provoked him. I was a woman; he was a man with a voice box and a wandering eye. The wedding ring on his finger makes me worry for his wife’s safety.
I have dreams sometimes. A man is attacking me: I know what to do to fight back; I’ve been trained for this, but my limbs are limp. I take the hits; he takes my life. I wake up. This is more than just a nightmare for many women; it is their reality—one that does not go away with the return to consciousness that comes with the rising of the sun.
Survival instincts get tired from running through our veins. You’re in your car and you see a man walk past. He’s minding his business. You lock your doors anyway. You’re walking back to your apartment, and you see a man walk past. He’s minding his business. You detour from your building to check he isn’t following you anyway. You’re on a run and you see a man walk past. He’s minding his business. You turn your music down to hear whether his footsteps follow yours anyway.
A playful pillow fight turns into some playful wrestling. Suddenly, you are laying beneath him, pinned down by his weight. You look into his eyes. They’re kind and he would never do anything like that. But it is as you are laying there—stuck—you realise that if he wanted to, he could, and if he wanted to, he would. He is stronger than you, taller than you, bigger than you. This is what you wanted though, was it not? A strong, tall man that could protect you. But what if he becomes the one you need protecting from? The thought will sit in the back of your mind, arising every time his anger seeps through or you find yourself held down by his weight again.
My cleavage peaks through the top of my shirt, my skirt hugs my hips. My friends compliment my outfit. “Thanks, it’s new,” I say. But heaven forbid a woman have a body. A man walks past; his eyes skip over mine and land directly on my chest. His thoughts are projected on his forehead. My clothes are off; I am but a sex toy in his fantasies. I am not a woman. I am not even a human; I am a hole. His stare lingers on the curvature of my breasts before he walks off, satisfied with his objectification. I spend the rest of the night hyperaware of the bullets that shoot me in the chest. The men manoeuvre through the space, eyes cocked and loaded, ready to fire at any woman who dares to exist in their line of sight. That top sits in my cupboard, unworn since that night.
You are in a club; a man offers to buy you a drink. You say yes. He buys you the drink and then tries to kiss you. You pull away before he gets the chance. He gets angry; he thinks you owe him sexual compensation for his efforts.
You are in a club; a man offers to buy you a drink. You say no. It’s a shot to his ego—why would anyone reject such an incredible offer? He gets angry; he thinks you owe him sexual compensation for his efforts.
To say yes or to say no, that is the question. Either way, it’s a threat to our existence. He’ll move onto his next victim, perhaps one more inebriated, one with no inhibitions, one that is too drunk to utter the two letters he doesn’t want to hear.
Oh, and don’t get me started on the phrase “the worst she can do is say no” because what a lie that is. This word is a luxury we don’t possess.
