You know, I don't avert my eyes anymore

One of the joys associated with the return of decent (i.e., non-hypothermic) weather is the freedom from the necessity to studiously layer my outfits. For example, I’ve made it my habit after work to head straight to the gym and then walk the rest of the way home afterward—a relatively short, three or four-block stroll. Over the winter I was perpetually (albeit insignificantly) annoyed by the fact that, even though I left the gym flushing and glistening with sweat, before leaving, I still had to cover my hot, gross-self in several layers of wool and cotton to prepare for my diminutive walk.

The first time I was able to walk home in just my shorts and gym shoes this season (which, presumably thanks to global warming, was in early March), I experienced a lovely feeling of liberation, freed from inhibiting fabric and frostbite alike. Even lovelier was that odd-yet-satisfying sensation of the wind meeting my legs for the first time in six months.

Of course, mere seconds later on that same walk, I experienced the markedly less lovely (and considerably less unfamiliar, and rather the opposite of liberating-feeling) obligatory “Hey, gorgeous!” blurted at me from a man who I had just passed on the sidewalk.

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Recently, BBC published an article, matter-of-factly titled “Why do men shout at women in the street?” It got so much feedback and attention that they quickly added a follow-up commentary article.

Getting holla’d at on the street is a difficult thing to complain about. To the receiving ear, it sounds like an awkward attempt at bragging: “I’m so beautiful that I force complete strangers into a fit of Pretty-Lady Tourette’s!” And even though pretty much every woman has gotten cat-called at least once (which really takes the wind out of a narcissist’s sails) there is, I admit, a complimentary aspect to it. As a commenter in the BBC article says, “there’s no such thing as a woman who doesn’t actually like receiving a compliment based on the way she looks—provided it’s delivered in a genuine, respectful and unimposing manner.”

In other words: sure, compliments are appreciated—when the complimentee can discern their intention. But in my opinion, any sense of flattery or pleasure derived by the street-goon “compliment” is simply a knee-jerk, conditioned reflex to an otherwise creepy intrusion into your day. Why creepy? Well, what can you really discern about the motivations of a leering 40-year-old holding up the wall of a drug store? Any sense of flattery is soon consumed by intrusive questions, namely, Why did he just yell at me? and How should I react to ensure that he leaves me alone and doesn’t say anything else?

Despite this, I’ve noticed that guys tend to defend the practice, because they seem to think they’re doing a service to preserve a woman’s self esteem. How else is a woman supposed to know that she’s attractive, if not by the word-vomit of street-walking strangers? It’s practically a civic service.

Pertinently, a psychological study found that superficial or unearned compliments are only capable of causing temporary spikes in mood. Your stable, lasting sense of self esteem is only altered by meaningful feedback that you feel is demonstrably and intimately connected to you, as a person. Science.

Complimentary fluff aside, the BBC article argues that the true roots of cat-calling are actually nefarious. It’s the wading pool for sexual predators trying to determine where the awkward-to-harassment line is drawn. It’s a method of maintaining social/sexual dynamics and establishing male dominance, since the practice is essentially a loud, vocal act of objectification. It has nothing to do with women at all (who cares what they think?) but is merely a way for men to establish themselves, amongst each other, as confident and… virile, or something.

Whether these theories sound valid or a little Second-Gunman conspiratorial to you, when you think about it, you have to admit that the whole practice appears to revolve more around men than, say, women. No matter how the woman reacts or feels, a man will always succeed in his attempt to affect a woman’s day, or make her feel uncomfortable, or solidify the stereotype that women are around to be admired. Women receive the Grand Prize of a questionable compliment and a likely dose of paranoia.

On the bright side, perhaps now I can claim new insight into those irritating people who walk around with earbuds stuffed in their cochleas, dangerously oblivious to their surroundings. I’d just as soon tune out, too.