The object of their affection

Another thing I hate about New York in the summer is that the warmer weather has made the men more forward. I don't know if it's because all the ladies are not all bundled up in coats anymore, but the men around here are acting as if they've been in an all-male prison for 20 years. For the last few days, I haven't been able to leave the house without receiving unwanted attention. (I am so NOT bragging right now. Marge, aka Wabes, knows what I'm talking about. I'm thinking the subway last summer after the Philharmonic. Are you with me, babe?)

On Tuesday I was walking home from the gym, all sweaty in my workout clothes, with my hair all frazzled, and since my eye infection returned I look like death most of the time, and yet a guy whispered, "Hey sexy," to me as I passed him. Was it the tank top? Is that all it takes? And Wednesday I was walking to Central Park (on a misguided mission, as it turned out. More on that Friday), and a guy made smooching sounds at me (though I was decidedly cuter than the day before's sweatiness). And walking home from work that night, a guy who looked like he works at GNC or something told me I was "bootylicious." That's a new one. I said thank you. It'd be nice if just one of these guys who seem to find me so desirable was not totally skeezy.

(I have no doubt that this post will have Midge telling me to not only avoid the subway but also avoid the sidewalk.)