Stop Yelling at Us Women

 

“He says that they never yell at them in the men’s locker room about closing time,” P points at Frank, Mr. You Never Smile at Me Man, sitting woefully in the corner of the room outside the locker rooms of the Kennedy High Pool, his wife still in the locker room.

            “Of course not,” I huff.

            P bellows a boisterous laugh. Frank hangs his head. Thinking oh no not again? I’m the brunt of another unintentional sexist behavior accusation? I didn’t mean it. I didn’t do anything. That’s not what I meant….

            “Don’t even get us started,” P continues, opening the door for me.

            Earlier, we’d been marveling at how no one had screamed at us to get out of the locker-room by the designated 15-minute time rule. It was already 12:17 by the clock; we were supposed to be out by 12:15 since the pool closed at 12:00 noon. P and I had laughed about it.

            Always, someone was yelling at us!  “LADIES! 4 MINUTES LEFT!” and  “LADIES 2 MINUTES LEFT!!!” and “ARE THERE ANY LADIES IN THE LOCKER ROOM STILL?”

                        It was so goddamn annoying. I mean, part of me got it having been in the customer service work sector for much of my working life. You want to get out of there as soon as possible. No one wants to work past their shift time.  But I was more subtle and devious about it. An obnoxious family of 6 strolling into Polar Bear ice cream at 2 minutes before closing and then proceeding to order up multiple milkshakes was met with: “I’m sorry, but the shake machine is broken.”

            I lied.

            It was very effective.

            I lied teaching too. A student would ask me a question about grammar or even university policy, “Professor, what will happen if we plagiarize?”

            “You will be thrown in jail.”
            Of course, I was just kidding, but often students would take me at my word. Especially, the international students. I was the authority. I must be telling the truth.

            Or back in their home countries, cheaters really were thrown in jail. Or worse.

            Today, when I found out that the men never get yelled at to get out of the locker room, it made perfect sense to me.

            Men don’t get yelled at by lifeguard youth working part time at the pool. Only the women do. Why? Because women don’t matter as much. They’re not going to fight back. Or if they do say something back (Which I’ve been known to do when the yelling starts to become too irksome: “2 MINUTES LEFT LADIES!” “THIS CLOCK SAYS WE HAVE 4 MINUTES!”), women just aren’t taken as seriously. It’s ingrained in our culture. Women are still second-class citizens and it’s not changing anytime soon.

            When I was in high school, way back in the dinosaur era, we fought for the ERA, the Equal Rights Amendment, making women on par with men. Did this amendment ever pass?

            Nope. Still no passage.

            And things just get worse. The Supreme court striking down of Roe v Wade. The ascendence of Donald Trump. Men will continue to rule the world.

            What can we women do about it?

            Is Frank the cause of it? He must think so after my schooling of him not telling women to smile and now this instance of men not getting yelled at to vacate the locker room.

            P and I head out the door, into the bright windy day. “See you next time,” she calls out.

            I wave and take a seat at one of the blue iron picnic tables, pulling out my granola bar and unwrapping it.

            Then El Creepo emerges from the building, staring at me. I ignore him. He starts to sing:
“Oh Carol, I’m not a foool for you!”

Oh Carol, Neil Sedaka

            Shit. Sure, I’d probably brought this behviour on myself earlier in the pool when he’d pushed Elisabeth out of her own lane and into mine just by his sheer presense. “I hate that guy!” I’d said to her, probably a little too loudly.

            Even so, I don’t think he’d sing that song to a man. Even if his name were Carol.

            He walks on by, a pleased smirk on his mug. Gives me a backward wave.

            I glare into his receding back. Wanting to say something back, but he was gone before anything came to mind.

            Not that it would matter. Anything I said would simply encourage him.

            Ian said I was a provacateur. That I the reason these weirdos pick me out of the crowd is because I invite it.

            Maybe so.

            Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut.

            Oh, hell no! I think, wondering if there’s a song about stupid men that I can sing to him next time I go to the pool.

            I’ll do some research on that and get back to you.