Monday, April 17, 2006
Those We Say "No" To (Pt.2)
In Berkeley in the late 60s I worked for a while as a medical transcriber in a local hospital. One day a medical salesman came in and happened to see me as I worked the front desk in reception. When I left to go into the back to begin my transcription duties, the guy followed me into the room.
He was my type for sure, but his level of aggression was way too much for me to cope with. How aggressive was he? Well, how about he locked the door, for starters, always a move designed to make a girl's heart go pitter-patter with fear, if nothing else. Then he plopped himself onto one of those little stools with wheels and spun himself across the room to where I sat at my Royal typewriter, nimble fingers ready to tap away. He wedged his knees around mine, pinning me into my chair, and he looked directly into my eyes.
"Hello," he says, in his best seductive manner. He wanted to ask me out on a date. But I was too flustered and mostly speechless. He finally left, and I breathed a sigh of relief, and wondered sadly why he had to come on so strong.
He really was my type. A slim, Robert Redford type of blond, with horn-rimmed glasses which happily did not make him look intellectual at all. But the aggressiveness really put me off, and he finally left.
Not long afterwards I went to a party at my friend A's place. Her usual interesting gatherings of friends, Berkeley students/professors. One young man was a violinist, but he came on like a big-game hunter. I remember he looked like Al Franken, only cuter. Again the horn-rimmed glasses. He was dark and good-looking with curly black hair and a very intense manner.
He asked me for a date, he begged, he was so honed into me it was scary. He literally chased me out into the street as I practically ran for my car, both of us uttering a trail of "please go out with mes" and "no I won'ts" and "go aways" and whatever else I might have yelled.
My friend A was rather amused by the story when I told her the next day. He really seemed like a decent guy, she said. So what is it about me that turned him into a far more...well, agile fellow?
Like I said earlier, I can understand aggressive guys, even if I don't care for it. The quiet, passive ones are even worse. They look at you with these adoring eyes, worshipful eyes. What did I do to deserve this? Somehow I end up feeling slightly guilty, as if I had bludgeoned their poor mothers to death or some such thing. I should be nicer to them, I tell myself, but why? What purpose would it serve?
I don't want a cave man, but I also don't want a guy who just leaves everything up to the woman. But maybe it works out that way no matter what.
For some reason my directing instructor's humorous quip comes back to me....
"A man chases a woman....until she catches him."
That's encouraging to know. No matter who much a woman feels under assault from a new male, as it were, nothing really will ever happen until the woman gives her approval.
End of that story.
- - - - - -
He was my type for sure, but his level of aggression was way too much for me to cope with. How aggressive was he? Well, how about he locked the door, for starters, always a move designed to make a girl's heart go pitter-patter with fear, if nothing else. Then he plopped himself onto one of those little stools with wheels and spun himself across the room to where I sat at my Royal typewriter, nimble fingers ready to tap away. He wedged his knees around mine, pinning me into my chair, and he looked directly into my eyes.
"Hello," he says, in his best seductive manner. He wanted to ask me out on a date. But I was too flustered and mostly speechless. He finally left, and I breathed a sigh of relief, and wondered sadly why he had to come on so strong.
He really was my type. A slim, Robert Redford type of blond, with horn-rimmed glasses which happily did not make him look intellectual at all. But the aggressiveness really put me off, and he finally left.
Not long afterwards I went to a party at my friend A's place. Her usual interesting gatherings of friends, Berkeley students/professors. One young man was a violinist, but he came on like a big-game hunter. I remember he looked like Al Franken, only cuter. Again the horn-rimmed glasses. He was dark and good-looking with curly black hair and a very intense manner.
He asked me for a date, he begged, he was so honed into me it was scary. He literally chased me out into the street as I practically ran for my car, both of us uttering a trail of "please go out with mes" and "no I won'ts" and "go aways" and whatever else I might have yelled.
My friend A was rather amused by the story when I told her the next day. He really seemed like a decent guy, she said. So what is it about me that turned him into a far more...well, agile fellow?
Like I said earlier, I can understand aggressive guys, even if I don't care for it. The quiet, passive ones are even worse. They look at you with these adoring eyes, worshipful eyes. What did I do to deserve this? Somehow I end up feeling slightly guilty, as if I had bludgeoned their poor mothers to death or some such thing. I should be nicer to them, I tell myself, but why? What purpose would it serve?
I don't want a cave man, but I also don't want a guy who just leaves everything up to the woman. But maybe it works out that way no matter what.
For some reason my directing instructor's humorous quip comes back to me....
"A man chases a woman....until she catches him."
That's encouraging to know. No matter who much a woman feels under assault from a new male, as it were, nothing really will ever happen until the woman gives her approval.
End of that story.
- - - - - -
