First of all, a happy New Year to all my readers. 2014 was a slow year for me due to some health issues and some behind-the-scenes insanity, but I'm looking forward to picking things up a bit in 2015. 

My own new year hasn't even started yet, though, and it's already off to a rocky start--one I think a lot of women can empathize with. It all started with a craving for root beer...

It was only 8 pm, but the guys in the next row had gotten an early start on their celebrating; you could tell by the way one of them (the driver, incidentally) was still chugging his Mike's Hard Lemonade as he got out of the car. He tossed the half-empty bottle into the bushes and shouted something incoherent, and I weighed my options. Running makes you look like prey--bad idea. Going back to my own car and locking the door might be viable, but again, it shows fear or indecision, and anyway, why should I let a drunk asshole and his buddy ruin my evening? 
I marched straight ahead and hoped they'd ignore me, but of course, Asshole started shouting. "Check out the purple!" he yelled, referring to my dyed hair. "Yo, that chick's feelin' it! Hey, yo, I want to feel it, too!" He barks a laugh like he's said something clever, and I keep up my confident stride--pace purposeful rather than hurried, shoulders back, head up. I don't look back to gauge how close he is. "Hey! Purple! Puuuuuurple!" I've reached the sidewalk and another customer is just coming out. He could say something helpful, but instead he just laughs. 

"Yeah, purple," the other guy says, and the drunk dude laughs and hollers some more. 

"How come you don't want to talk to me? Huh? You mad? Hey bro, the bitch is mad. Yo, she's pissed off, man. Check it! She's an angry bitch." I've reached the door and I walk inside, relived to find that my worst fears--that the Target has closed early for the holiday--are unfounded. The drunk guy and his quieter friend are behind me still, closer, but I'm inside with the light and the cameras and the witnesses. 

Not that anyone is stepping up. Actually, the few people around the entry area glance over to see what all the noise is, and then avert their eyes. Charming. I don't slow down to grab a cart because that will mean letting them approach me, and I haven't lost Asshole's attention yet. "Hey man, she needs to learn how to chill out. Somebody ought to teach that angry bitch to chill the fuck ouuuuuut." I take a hard right to walk past the registers and stop to chat with a cashier who conveniently (and politely) compliments my hair, and the Asshole and his buddy go straight, scattering other customers out of their path like a bow wave. 

I spend the rest of my short visit on high alert, listening for Asshole in case he makes his way back toward me by happenstance. I can hear him every now and then, his voice loud and brash throughout the store. It's the same level of sound you hear in a shooter game when you're creeping up on the enemy as they laugh together and trash talk. It's the sound of men (or a man, in this case) who are amped up and ready for Violence. 

I hope they're not at the front of the store as I walk to the registers with my armload of soda, but at the same time, I almost hope they are. I imagine turning to them, a stern look on my face, and asking Asshole if he has any idea how scary it is for a lone woman to have a drunk man shouting as he follows her through a dark parking lot. If he means to be so casually cruel, and if his momma would be proud if she could see him tonight. 

It's probably for the best that they're nowhere near the front of the store when I leave. It's funny, I was just today musing that I haven't had a man make me feel unsafe in weeks--maybe even a couple of months. Were things just getting better, I wondered, or have I just been lucky lately. Thanks, Asshole, for reminding me that #YesAllWomen have to face bullshit like yours. I hope you have a happy New Year... but first I hope your momma gives you that smacking you so richly deserve.