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The Washington Post, Style Plus Feature
January 17, 2005
Illustration courtesy of The Washington Post
View on WashingtonPost.com
My fingers grip my sleeves, trapping heat inside the arms of my floppy, oversize, hooded sweatshirt -- my thumbs peek out slightly, like the timid heads of turtles. Tapered sweatpants borrowed from my boyfriend -- pants even a boy wouldn't wear by choice -- slouch over my lower body with MC Hammer-like flair. My face has reached a purple-pink that, much like a newborn's, glows primitively, fluids rushing just below the skin. I am not the goddess of Nike commercials, although in my mind I am that spirit of man versus nature.
My spine tingles with adrenaline as I stumble over what my dad used to call "snirt." This, the worst kind of winter residue, is a cocktail of the brownish-black street sludge that remains after a snowfall. A tumble would mean the humiliation of a four-mile return trip with a suspiciously brown booty; not the picture of gazelle-like athletic prowess or the essence of feminine elegance. Then I hear it: "HONK, HONK, HONK!!!"
It takes every bit of muscle that hasn't been frozen solid to keep myself upright. "Don't look over, don't look over," I tell myself.
My audience passes with an overexcited wave that is clearly rooted in some sort of mammalian trigger response. "Girl . . . running . . . arrgghhhhh!!"
His '86 Corolla backfires its way past me in a blur of oxidized paint and mismatched side panels, a yellow Vanillaroma tree swaying tauntingly from the rearview mirror.
My footing becomes uncertain, but I command myself, "Steady, steady!" If I fall, I give the Neanderthal power over me.
He, the drive-by honker, is not discerning. He cares not that I reveal only five square inches of skin. He is not bothered by the fact that, underneath my XL sweats, I may be slightly bigger than a Victoria's Secret model. His only criteria are the right chromosomes, no signs of obesity, under age 60 . . . and running.
His behavior is similar to the attack mode that dogs sometimes exhibit around prey. To a canine, a mailman and a PETA crusader look the same while running: like meat. In a similar vein, the drive-by honker's actions seem to be rooted in the courtship rituals of the caveman era.
My senses reel at the leering grin and a horn that plays "Pump Up the Jam." There is nothing about me that is even remotely attractive right now.
There is very little that can be done to thwart the drive-by honkers. But I have a message for mine: Your duct tape is coming off your dashboard.
-- Jenny Mayo
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