Sunday is my day of general musings, the day when I consider all the things that have occurred to me over the week that I haven’t had the chance to really think on yet.
This week, when I was grocery shopping, I had not one, but two different men offer to help me get my groceries in the car or to take my cart from me and put it away for me (he didn’t want it–I watched him put it away after he took it).
My first thought, with the guy who wanted to help me with my groceries was, “Ohmigod, he wants to kill me and wear my skin as a prom dress!” (It puts the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again) And because I thought this, I glanced down at my dry, flaking skin and politely refused, telling him, “Oh, no thank you. I got this.”
With the second man, he just wanted to put my cart away, but I figured he must want my cart. Totally cool. So I gave it to him and thanked him. He put it away, waved to me, and got into his car and left.
And I was left scratching my head, somewhat bewildered.
Did I look like I couldn’t handle putting a cart away? Do I exude the “I’m frazzled and vaguely incompetent” vibe? Did I just happen to run across two really nice men? Oh God, have I become the little old lady the boy scouts help across the street?
No, no, honestly, their offers were super sweet. I’m just not used to people I don’t know offering to help me out. It actually made me a little edgy.
When I got home that night, I told the hub what had happened. And the first question out of my mouth was, “Do they really think I’m so grossly incompetent that I can’t unload my own groceries? No one offered to help me out when I was fat, had an infant and a two year old, and honestly could have used the help.”
I needed help then; I don’t necessarily need help now.
I said as much to M, and he said, “They were hitting on you.”
Of course, I thought this is complete BS. I was hit on once by a meth head on a bicycle (long story, but I think he hit on me because I look like I might have a cookie in my purse). I know what it looks like to be hit on.
They were just being nice, right? Because if I was being hit on, it was the most subtle come-on ever. Granted, when the meth head asked me to coffee, he stared at my boobs the entire time. I was actually afraid he was going to hurt himself, the way he stared at my boobs while circling me on his Huffy. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a head do that, except in Poltergeist. I’m pretty sure that’s not… natural.
And the man before that was my husband, and let’s face it, I was twenty and he was… ahem… less than subtle.
Anyway, I think it’s sad that, when a man does decide to be chivalrous, my first thought is that he’s going to kill me, eat me (not in a good way) and wear me (again, not in a good way). No wonder chivalry is dead.
Girls like me may have killed it.