The Howling Ogling Offensive, But Sometimes It’s Just A Little Bit Flattering

Call it a victory for Women Who Walk on the Sidewalks: In Minneapolis, street-paving crew workers may no longer ogle women.

After a woman complained that she and several colleagues were being eyed up and down every time they passed a work site, the city’s paving engineer sent out a memo announcing that workers would be disciplined if they engaged in such “visual harassment.”

And so it may be that that happy day has arrived, at least somewhere on Earth, where a woman can walk down the street without risking public commentary on her sexual attractiveness.

Imagine: No more of those construction site gantlets that transform full-fledged grown-ups into red-faced, unwilling objects of lust. No more battles to find an appropriate response, alternating between the retort that seems shrill and insufficient and the furious silence that seems craven and insufficient.

Yet my joy is tempered with shame. With my feminist head hung low, I confess to an event of several weeks ago.

I was walking down a city street holding my 6-year-old daughter’s hand while my husband and younger daughter walked ahead.

A creatively T-shirted guy in his 20s walked toward us. As he passed me, he murmured in an unmistakable ogle-voice, “Hel-looooo.”

Did I feel angry, as I have on every previous ogling? Did I think what a low-life scum he was?

Not hardly. This time I felt a broad smile spread over my face. And what I thought was, “Hot diggety dog, the old girl has some life in her yet!”

Goddess forgive me, I actually felt flattered.

Here I was, the very picture of maternal propriety, and some guy thought I was a major babe.

Sure, he was a moron, but frankly, I am reaching the age at which who cares?

I was immediately overcome with self-loathing.

I was in the appalling position of confirming every scuzzball’s claim that women love being ogled. I was an embarrassment to my fellow women, a discredit to my sex.

In my defense, I present the fact that I am not the woman I used to be. Namely, I am older.

I have passed out of the ogle-target population and into the carpool-target population. I can generally walk past a construction site with nary a glance.

It is a relief, for the most part. And yet, as time passes, I find the prospect of public acknowledgment of my attractiveness less repugnant.

Sure, I want people to notice my inner qualities. But compliments on one’s outer qualities do have a certain oomph.

Who wants to hear a wolf whistle followed by, “Hey, get a load of the sensitive yet authoritative parenting style on that babe!” or, “Nice pair of brain hemispheres!”

It’s not that I miss being ogled as much as that I miss being the kind of woman who would be ogled.

An ogle is a public announcement of a babe-sighting. Granted, it’s shallow. Sure, it’s offensive. But even a woman out for a walk with her own babes sometimes likes to be considered a babe.

How antifeminist of me, how horridly retrograde! I disgust myself, especially since immediately post-ogle, I couldn’t wait to boast.

I rushed to catch up to my husband, yanking my perplexed 6-year-old’s arm in my haste.

“That guy ogled me,” I bragged. My husband looked stunned, then impressed, for he has left the target population for being outraged at another man’s lust for his wife and entered the target population for taking it as a compliment.

Officially, I am still outraged. In principle, I decry ogling and deride men who engage in it, and I staunchly defend the Minneapolis policy.

But as long as there are oglers, and every so often one is moved to ogle me, why shouldn’t I look at the bright side of things? Boys, get a load of this bachelor’s degree in English!