Monday, October 12, 2015

Le Entitlement



It's some unwritten rule—maybe it's written but with invisible ink—this male entitlement to anything and everything about a woman and her body. I experienced it firsthand with le ex, and probably on numerous other less dramatic occasions in the public sphere of life, but ended up letting it roll off my back as we women are always trained to do, in order to appear calm, sane and anything but the dragon lady b***h. Well, these claws have been sharpened as fiercely as this tongue.

The intention was to make one quick stop. I knew exactly what I wanted from Nordstrom and where to pick it up. I marched straight up to the counter, glanced at the gorgeous array of colors that screamed loudly "Come play!" and asked simply for the two items I needed. The woman behind the counter was perky, energetic and really kind. She explained she wasn't the associate for the counter but could do her best to help me out.

Enter male entitlement, stage left.

He was perkier than she was—the stereotypical artsy hipster fashionista guy, now becoming more common behind every cosmetics counter. Inches from my face, inspecting it like a slab of marble he couldn’t wait to crack, he said, “Hmmm, let me show you something you’re going to love.” I smiled sheepishly and said, “If it’s something for my skin, I’m good, thank you. Been a devout user of the same brand for seven years.”

Blatantly disregarding all that I said, he skipped away to rummage for this product. Strike one: Why the hell doesn’t anyone listen to me? If I were a man, my word would have been respected from the first time. It’s a problem I’m facing at work, so bad that I have had to ask male coworkers to help me and start speaking on my behalf because whatever I say goes unheard or turns into another triggering session of gaslighting.

Quickly he returned, super giddy, and before I knew it, his hands were on my face without warning. Without asking. “Eyes up!” he announced as he brushed pounds of goop beneath my left eye. I felt frozen between shock and discomfort. “Oh. Em. Gee. You look gorgeous!” He brought me a mirror and asked, “Doesn’t that look sooooo much better? You like to wear a lot of purples and that tires out your under eyes and this magical product will help.”

Strike two and enter Lady Narrator analysis, stage right.

What could I have done? It was the same mental battle I fought in my relationship. Push him away and cause a scene—no matter how polite—or grin and bear it? It's the mental battle so many victims face in times of sexual abuse or rape or other unwanted physical advances.

Looking like a b***h would be a big risk and thanks to years of Muslims being in the spotlight as flight risks, I couldn't just blow up and say, "Um excuse me, please don't touch me." Oops, did I just say blow up? Damn it.

He had already disregarded my clear explanation of not wanting anything outside of my brand on my face. And even if I was kind and gentle and backed away saying, “I’m sorry, but I don’t like being touched,” I get those looks and the smeared reputation of prudish weirdo and only reinforce another pathetically untrue stereotype. It’s so damn exhausting.

Then comes the next analysis that in and of itself is two fold. First, the random assumption that I wear purple (far from the case that day btw) which was a sad cover up to his true backhanded compliment—part two: the purple bags under my eyes are frightening and may only be accentuated if I wear blue based colors. I didn’t let his insult go unnoticed. “You mean it’s clear that I’ve been quite sleep deprived and overworked that you think I need this product to cover me up?” He smiled sarcastically. “Haha! No! I didn’t say thaaaaaat.” I held my tongue but thought, “Not directly.”

He didn't care. He was too consumed with the belief that he had found the magical cure to a woman's naturalistic appearance when in reality I want to remain as real as I comfortably can. I buzzkilled his vibe by not investing $40 on that "highlighter" that mimicked what my much cheaper concealer can do when I have those rare days where I really feel like my eyes have given out and I do indeed resemble a divorced 26 year old, employed full time at a job that requires 120 miles/4 hours a day of driving, hours of agonizingly painful sitting behind a mind numbing computer, while tolerating unnecessary verbal and emotional harassment from executive management. I guess the ladder to Dragon Lady is being climbed. Go Corporate America! In the meantime, thank you, but no thank you overly ecstatic dude, I will wear those under eye bags and blemishes with pride.

I won’t tack on another 30 minutes to my morning that I could use for sacred sleep to conceal so many natural parts of me. I adore the crow’s feet that have developed on my right eye from days and days of stressing, crying and overcoming. It means I lived. I survived. I’m still moving forward. Don’t try to manipulate me like you did the 65-year-old woman who came in after me with a fully loaded stroller for her tiny poodle. Don’t.

Don’t try and think that on top of your attempt to make me fabricate insecurities I don’t need, your being gay can give you free access to touching me. You’re still a male, gay or not, and that doesn’t give you the right to touch me, push your makeup tips on me (literally) and then word yourself carefully enough to almost, almost, make me second guess what I see in the mirror. It took many years of loving that reflection, don’t mess with it. Another man almost did, and I left him as quickly as I left you.

So no honey, don’t think you’re entitled to touch me and slather orange liquid on the face of a girl who vowed to love who she is after a tumultuous childhood that almost made her lose all self esteem. No, honey, I will not yield to the sick ideals of the constantly evolving cosmetics company; that foundation and concealer are essential to daily life, and that even then when you’ve mastered its addiction, it becomes worthless without the next new trend like sculpting or highlighting or contouring.

When makeup ends up changing so much of what you look like that you’re not even you, what are you telling yourself? Focus on that question because the world’s receiving the message loud and clear while the cosmetics industry gets what it wants. Beyond the necessity (for a variety of health related reasons), makeup is unwarranted. Beneath his cold brush, for a split second, all I could think was, “Wow, I must look so disgustingly un-presentable that this man felt compelled enough to come fix me.” I got compressed beneath that male entitlement, the illusion they carry that they need to be knights for women—even if they’re gay—and fix us because we were oblivious to being badly broken.

Hollywood and the propagandized romance have misinformed men of that philosophy that if they appear confident and knowledgeable enough that they seem to thoroughly get you—and not just you you, but that deeper you, beneath the layers—they win. That’s why he threw out that “like to wear a lot of purples” comment. It’s a psychological factor that was supposed to play my heartstrings well enough to get me to buy the product. To think, “Hmm, I do find that jewel tone to be the best suited for me so I guess he’s right. Wow! Let me buy this then!” I always fail psychology. Hence, my excellence in Sociology.

Following that experience I was reassured being a woman means being damned both ways—if you do and if you don’t. Therefore, I’m going to keep leaning towards the fierceness side. I’m going to keep putting my foot down. I confidently told him I was not going to buy it and he seemed truly disappointed after pushing a few more times. He thought he really had me after generously evening out both sides of my face with this highlighter.

The thing is more women need to step up to the plate of demanding their rights like personal space, respect, opportunity and having their words not just heard, but listened to. Men aren’t entitled to anything from us, no matter who they are. We offer human beings all the same sense of basic respect, but above that, the rest must be earned.