(I
had such a weird experience some time ago and posted it, but then quickly took it off of this blog. That was before the "Me Too" movement. I wanted to post this again, at that time, but then realized that some people would view my comments as wanting to jump on the band-wagon. I've actually had worse experiences that I won't get into. The reason that I share this story is that I've always been strong enough to say ,"No!" In this case, the Neanderthal-perp actually tried to shame me as not being a real woman when I backed away from him. So, month after month, I've hesitated to tell my story. It's been a year, almost, since I've added anything to my blog. I had a busy summer of editing and writing another book. In Autumn life got in the way of my creativity. Yet, my story needed to be told. I finally decided that there is no time like the present to finally be brave and post to my blog, warts-and-all. Here is my story.)
I get into a pool in an undisclosed
desert-area resort (for those of you who don’t know where I live and/or visit in
the winter months, I’m not telling.) I make innocent small-talk with an elderly
fellow. I noticed earlier he had a lot of chutzpah and carried himself
confidently like he owns the place. A
lot of people there know him. He looks very familiar and I recognize him from
somewhere, something.
Well, he swims over to me after
commenting that some old geezer coming out of the hot-tub had white,
see-through swim trunks. (Why, yes he did and my eyes are still in pain.) Mr.
Chutzpah keeps getting closer and I realize nobody else is in the pool at that
moment. He is an arm’s length away and notifies me that his wife is out of
town. I use my water weights to subtly
swim away all the while keeping eye contact. I realize this
guy was a well-known entity in the 1970s, a singer and actor. (I’ve seen other celebrities at this athletic club. It’s known for its discretion and privacy.) He wants me to
see how big his thumbs are. I see where this situation is going and back away
as courteously as I can. He asks if I’m married and I say, “Yes,” to which he
replies that he just wants to be friends and that he hates the word, “Maybe”. I
get major creep-factor vibes by this time and tell him that I grew up in
Detroit and know how to defend myself; that I can and will hurt guys that get
too close. He stops his advance and yells, “I bet you think all men have the
same thoughts and want the same things, don’t you?” I say, “Yes, they all do
but most know how to control themselves.” I swim to the other side of the pool
close to the hot-tub where another bather is relaxing. He asks if he can use my
towel because he doesn’t have one. I say, “NO!”
"What's wrong with you?" he gripes. The creep gets out muttering something about lesbians, gives me a sideways glance and grabs a towel out
of his gym bag. He leaves the pool and says “Arrivederci, Bitch!” I was
incredibly relieved that he left.
(Hey, Dude, I don’t care if you were a
big deal in music and on the big-screen forty years ago. Now, you are a dirty,
itty-bitty old man that doesn't respect personal space or your wife’s feelings.
Stay away, you little nerd, because I might have looked vulnerable in the water, but I'm Hell-on-land and know how to fight. I
don’t want to, but I can. I’ve been through Hades and back in my life and I
will not tolerate your creepy behavior. I don’t care if someone whistles. That
is a compliment. If someone holds a door open for me I say “Thank you,” to the
gentleman. If someone says, “Hey, baby,” I am flattered -- but "nobody" violates my space even if he thinks he is some
big-deal. Get stuffed, you old has-been.)
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