Whistle As We Walk

Sharing Saturday 

Last weekend, in New York City, I strapped on a pair of funky high heels and strutted downtown to a party for a friend's birthday. I don’t often have the opportunity to get dressed up and attend an event in a cool loft without husband or children. I was in black, I had on makeup, my hair was cooperating. I felt sensational. And some middle age man walked by me, eyed me up and down, and whistled.

All the traumatic moments in my life when I was ogled, whistled at, catcalled, eyed up and down or commented upon – vanished. All the upset about being big-chested as a young adolescent – gone.  All my feminist rants – poof, up in thin smoke. For I am a 47-year-old suburban mother with a carpool schedule, and, generally speaking, no one whistles at me anymore. And I have to admit, it felt good.

I have long wondered when this moment would arrive – when I would no longer be an object of lust, or at least unwanted appreciation. It's not that I'm any great beauty, or have used my looks to get where I am today. I went to college, I have a brain, I like to use it. But, like a large percentage of the female population, I also care – a great deal – about how I look. I have spent untold thousands of dollars since I was a teenager on clothing, hair products, makeup, jewelry, hosiery, and ointments designed to transform my life. Not to mention shoes – which, as my college roommate once remarked, are going to fit no matter what size jeans you're wearing.  

I've tried on many appearances. In high school, I was first a hippie and then Annie Hall, complete with men's shirts, vests and hats. In college, I attempted preppie, but neither my bra size nor my ambitions to be bohemian and literary really jibed with Fair Isle sweaters, so I moved onto flowing gypsy pants and peasant blouses. My goal was to have a reputation as the smart one, but with covert sensuality underlying all that I did. In my first job, I thought I had to be corporate (it was still the '80s) and I purchased my first (and only) Laura Ashley dress which I paired with … gulp … white pumps.

None of this really worked. Finally, I reached the non-profit world, where I have been allowed to explore my style more easily. I finally reached a point where my personal and professional lives meet up, and I can be both boho and chic. Mostly black pants, some cute skirts (but only with tights.) Solid colors. And great coats and accessories that make the outfit. I have actually learned a lot of good dressing tips for my body type from the TLC show "What Not To Wear," including to always, always wear a wide, open neck so that I draw attention up to my face. Thanks, Stacy and Clinton.

So here I am, mid-life, with a better sense of what looks and feels right on me, with a salary that allows me to purchase an arsenal of products to keep me looking young, and what happens? I'm too old.  I've crossed over the age barrier when people notice you on the street, in the subway, or at all. Plus, I'm usually accompanied by at least one child, which automatically renders you invisible wherever you are. 

I HATED being the object of attention on the streets growing up. It made me self conscious when I was a young teen, and angry when I became a teenage and young adult feminist. I hated that men were free to comment on my body as I was passing by, and I hated that I had a body that encouraged those comments. I have lived in this body for many years, and have grown accustomed to it, but I have never gotten over that feeling of being too exposed. At first, when the whistles slowed down, I felt relief. I didn't have to think as much about how to cover myself when walking down the street. But now, I have to admit that I miss the admiration and the assurance that I'm still here. As with many things in life, I live with a duality about this issue.

So now I'm watching my 10-year-old daughter and her friends as they begin to navigate the tween years. Some of them are beginning to feel a little more self conscious. Some are still completely oblivious. My daughter is somewhere in the middle. I think about what she's going to experience in a couple of years when she looks older and boys and men begin to notice her. Will she have the same reactions I did? Will she want to cover up, or will she relish it?  Maybe a little of both?

First and foremost, I hope that she feels more comfortable in her skin than I did and do. It’s no fun to grow up hating your body. I work hard to keep my own negative body image issues out of any conversation in our house. But she is still going to be bombarded with American media that pressures girls earlier and earlier to look a certain way. 

My job, I think, is to assure her of her own beauty, both inner and outer, and to guide her to a life comprised of myriad facets, not one focused on looks alone.

And in navigating the complex set of feelings that accompany being objectified for how we look, I promise to teach her that a whistle is just a whistle, and that she is free to whistle back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comments

[Lyn]

I don't agree that whistles are just whistles. If only that were true.

This thread over at Metafilter from last fall - http://www.metafilter.com/85667/Hi-Whatcha-reading - has some amazingly thought-provoking discussion (and will suck up a lot of time if you try to read most of it) about catcalls and many related issues.

[Hope Doyle]

Free to whistle back - I like that.

[Carol]

Great post, Karen. The age of invisibility is hard. I work constantly to have it be freeing, to try to keep my heart from jumping when my hair cutter tells me of affordable botox, or the newest magic potion. At the bottom of it, I still slightly miss the attention. But only a little.

[Patrick]

Gee, I'm envious. I never get whistled at anymore.

[Tracy]

I didn't know you back in the day but I do know you now and you are beautiful both inside and out :-) (as is your wonderful daughter!).