In order to fully communicate this message, I must first describe the circumstances under which I experienced this most titillating compliment.
My mother parked a quarter mile from the condo, and had not locked the car. Of all the people in the condo that could have made the walk, she asked me, the daughter with the least patience and the sharpest tongue. I balked, but walk I did.
I was already annoyed because at 10:00 am, on the gulf coast of Florida, you can watch the convection even the shade. I had already walked a hundred yards, sweating and lamenting my choice in footwear, when from the opposite direction, came a aged compact car. It had at one time been black, and sporty, but now, it sputtered and nearly dragged the asphalt as it passed.
From the open window came a young voice with a thick Latino accent, “Hey, mamasita!” Now, I’m not going to lie and say that as a very-near-fifty year old woman, there wasn’t a small part of me that was flattered. A very small part.
Of course, it took mere seconds for the “are you freaking kidding me” factor to engage. The obvious offense notwithstanding, I wondered as I often do when cat-called, how many times that method has actually worked.
Somehow, it does not occur to men that (a) they are traveling at velocity and can barely be seen and (b) they’ve not slayed a dragon in our honor or rescued us from a tower.
Young men, the only way a “cat-call” might work is if you rode in on a white horse, dragging behind you an enemy who threatened our kingdom. You see, the days of the hunt for a nubile mate by objectifying her are long gone. That girl you just cat-called can take care of herself and a peacocking coed just isn’t yet the man who will turn her head.
And come to think of it, if you’re going to run your mouth while speeding in a residential area, breaking the morning peace of a beachside stroll, make it something interesting like “Hey. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”