Summer to me means three things: heat, hemlines and hard hats.
It’s the time of year when I can parade around in a skimpy dress with strategic cutouts that would make my mom wince.
And when I know I’m looking good, I brazenly walk past a construction site, anticipating that whistle and “Hey, mama!” catcall. Works every time — my ego and I can’t fit through the door!
I’ll never forget my first time: At age 20, interning at MTV in Times Square and taking advantage of the company’s liberal summer dress policy, I was wearing a tightly molded pink tank top and black capris when I strolled by two construction guys on a lunch break.
“You’re hot!” they shouted, high-fiving one another.
I was over the moon. What a contrast from those coy college boys who never expressed how they felt. This was a brave new world, where guys tell it like they see it.
Now, a decade later, I still get that butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling whenever I walk past a construction stronghold. I’ve learned that it’s not what you wear — the skimpy sundresses, the sky-high heels — but how. Walking confidently past a mass of men, making eye contact and flashing a smile shows you as you are: self-possessed and playful. The wolf whistles that follow will send your ego soaring.
I realize most women with healthy self-confidence don’t court unwanted male attention. In fact, most women seem to hate it.
Last year, a 28-year-old Minneapolis woman who goes by her first name, Lindsey, wrote a now-infamous rant on Craigslist’s Missed Connections to a catcaller whose comments about her thong didn’t sit well with her. Then, earlier this summer, she caused a viral sensation with her pocket-sized deck of “Cards Against Harassment” — which say, in part, “Don’t be that guy. Nobody likes that guy” — to hand out to catcallers. It launched a fierce online debate about how catcalling is a form of abuse, leading to a climate that oppresses women further.
But the mystique and machismo of manly construction workers have always made my heart beat a little faster — and made my sashay a little saucier. It’s as primal as it gets, ladies! They either grunt in recognition or they go back to their coffee break. It’s not brain science — when a total stranger notices you, it’s validating.
Oh, don’t go rolling those sanctimonious eyes at me, young women of Vassar: I may court catcalls, but I hold my head high. Enjoying male attention doesn’t make you a traitor to your gender.
Isn’t feminism all about self-empowerment, anyway — or am I just lifting from an impassioned speech by a college porn star named Belle Knox?
Besides, hard hats need something to look at while they’re on their lunch break. I can be that objectified sex thing for them! What’s so wrong about a “You are sexy!” comment from any observant man?
Of course, not all catcalls are created equal. The good ones are innocuous, not crass or obscene. To clarify, a compliment is “You’re beautiful,” and not “I like your nipples,” a crude comment beyond the point of no return.
I imagine the catcall stretches back to ancient construction times, when the Israelites were building the pyramids, with scores of single Jewish women hiking up their loincloths, hoping for a little attention.
Most of the time, we women can’t shake a hurtful insult hurled 15 years ago — but can barely recall a compliment from yesterday.
My drive-by dose of confidence is the 10-second antidote to all that negative feedback in the real world, where reverberations stick.
For me, it’s nothing short of exhilarating, yielding an unmatched level of euphoria.
The only thing standing in my way these days isn’t pesky models from Meatpacking hangouts, but technology. Lift your eyes from that iPhone, fellas — your Facebook feed can’t be that interesting!
Before I know it, winter will be upon us again. And it’s not easy turning heads when you’re up to your neck in Gore-Tex.
Maybe I’ll find self-worth and validation somewhere else — say, at an ice-hockey rink. Maybe I’ll try a body-clinging Lycra figure-skating suit on for size.
Yes, I live to strut — or skate — another day.