Leaving Elliott Bay Books tonight after writing, I barely glanced in the direction of a couple of guys sitting on the windowsill outside Nube Green and was greeted with “How you doing, angel?” I ignored them and moved on, still lip-syncing along to whatever was playing in my headphones.
Waiting for the crosswalk outside Julia’s, still listening to music, I was approached by an obviously drunk guy who got juuust inside my personal space bubble* and initiated the following exchange:
Him: [slurred] ‘Scuse me, miss.
Him: Do you know this bar?
Me: No, I’ve never been in.
Him: I wanna drink.
Me: Well, it’s worth a shot.
Him: Let’s go.
Crosswalk light: [changes at this instant]
Me: Oh no I have to go home have a good evening bye!
He didn’t get threatening or anything, except for being slightly closer to me than I was comfortable with, but I hope I don’t have to explain why an attempted pick-up line by a drunk on a Wednesday night made me side-eye him pretty hard.
I don’t know why I keep blogging about this crap, except that a) it feels personally useful to keep a record of such things, and b) I seem to know a sufficient number of guys who have had no idea that this goes on regularly to women they know that I hope I can shed some light on the subject.
Nothing gets better if you don’t talk about it, anyway.
If you have a story to tell, you are always welcome here in the comments, or on Hollaback!
*Being five-foot-none tall, my personal bubble is probably a few inches larger than most people’s because if you are very tall and you get close to me, I have to crane my neck to see your face and that is not comfortable. My personal bubble gets even bigger and more rigidly defined when it’s after 9PM in Capitol Hill and I am by myself and you are a visibly drunk guy approaching me. GO FIGURE.