Yesterday, as I was walking home from a fantastic brunch with one of my favorite people, I passed a local pizza shop that I’ve ordered from many times. They have great pizza, fries, and milkshakes — and that trifecta is often hard to come by.
It was a beautiful day out, one of the first beautiful days of the year here in Philadelphia, and there was a group of men eating outside. Truth be told, I didn’t notice them — not yet anyway. I was on my phone, and I was on a mission to get home and take a nap.
Then, from behind me, I heard, “Now that’s what I’m talking about” — and the group of men laugh.
I decided to ignore it. I wasn’t even 100% sure that it was about me; maybe they, too, were pumped about the pizza-fries-milkshake combo. And then I heard the guy pipe up again, loud enough for me to hear, “I mean, am I right or am I wrong?”
The guys in the group gave various grunts of approval, and as I waited to cross the street, I rolled my eyes in private. I was aggravated at the objectification inherent in being a direct topic of conversation without ever being addressed as standing right there — like I’m a couch that you’re considering buying, and not a human being. But I wasn’t in the mood to speak up.
