“Now hold the fuck up.”
I wrote this piece several weeks ago, immediately after this event took place. I was planning to post it then, but too many other things felt relevant. I’ve decided I’d share it with you all, anyway. Better late than never, right?
This morning started like most of my mornings do: walking to the local coffee shop.
This time, however, I crossed paths with a friendly gentleman, who took my friendly “good morning” as an invitation to walk alongside me. We chatted. I didn’t mind; he was funny, and I’ve never regretted a conversation with a stranger—
—that is, until he walked into the coffee shop and absolutely insisted on paying for my coffee, ignoring my protests and handing the cash directly to the cashier.
(Friends, in case you weren’t aware: this is an inadvisable pick up strategy.)
I thanked him for the coffee and emphasized that I wasn’t looking for company; I was here to work. In response, he promised he would leave as soon as his food came. “You’re so nice, you deserve to have someone buy you a coffee. No expectations,” he concluded with obvious expectations.
Sure, I thought. Of the hundreds of days I’ve come to this coffee shop, let’s make today a unique one.
His name was Andrew. He liked to hear himself talk. He’d ask questions, then cut off my answers with his own stories. It was irksome, but tolerable. I didn’t need him to hear my stories, and his almost-certainly-fictional exploits were at least entertaining. I only decided to say something when, in the course of his monologues, he began making comparisons between the “male brain” and the “female brain.”
I know. I can hear you groaning from here.
When I got the chance to speak, I explained that I didn’t believe in those delineations. Naturally, he had a full-on monologue to articulate his heartfelt advocacy of women. “I’m excellent,” he told me. Several times. He continued to detail, with great enthusiasm, how the female mind works. He referred to me as “young lady.”
“Now hold the fuck up.”
I didn’t say that, but I wanted to.
“I’m going to stop you there for a second,” I said after he took a breath. “I believe your intentions are good, and I can clearly see you’re trying to connect. But I don’t appreciate the way you’re talking to me right now.”
I explained that calling a grown adult “young lady” is inappropriate. I then pointed out that explaining the human mind to me — as if I need instruction — is demeaning. “I have a doctorate in psychology,” I said. “And right now, you’re assuming you know more than I do, and trying to get me to agree with you, rather than actually making space for what I have to say.”
He didn’t like that.
No, he got angry.
“You’re wrong,” he said. Several times. Loudly. He accused me of assuming his intentions and reminded me that he was excellent. He pointedly called me “young lady” again.
I told him to leave. Fortunately, he did; though he did make sure to get the last word. Apparently, it was a competition.
When the man left, my co-regular Ted leaned over from the table next to me. “You okay?”
I shrugged it off and took a sip of my coffee. “At least I can say this morning was interesting.”
***
I wish I could tell you this was the first time something like this happened: that a stranger felt entitled to my time. That they saw my gender, my stature, my smile, and immediately positioned themselves as superior to me. It’s a rerun now: they started warm and friendly, only to turn sour the moment I set a boundary.
I could choose to act differently, sure. I’m fully aware that I open myself up to this risk any time I say “good morning” to a stranger. But in truth, I don’t want to live in a pair of headphones, wearing vacant expressions, trying desperately to emanate unapproachability. It’s a valid strategy — advisable, even — but that’s just not me.
I want the world to throw things at me, the good and the bad. I want to prove, time and time again, that I can handle it. That I’m strong enough to stand up for myself. That no one, no matter how excellent, can dull my sunshine.
Thanks for the coffee ☀️.
