I was in a library yesterday, working and eating a cream cheese, salt, and ham sandwich on french bread (trademark pending) when this maintance guy starting fixing a lightbulb by my work station. He was being pretty relentless with the creepy eye contact, but moving to another station seemed like an overreaction. How long could changing a lightbulb take? Plus, I didn’t want to interrupt my fine dining experience.
Then I looked down and noticed a fair amount of french bread crumbs had fallen down my shirt. My immediate thoughts went something like, “Gah! How the heck am I going to get these crumbs out in a way that doesn’t encourage Winky McBlueJumpSuit over there.” And then I realized that eating crumbs out of your cleavage is one of the least sexy things a woman could do and would probably turn him off. There was a strange sense of empowerment that came with this newfound ability to counter victimizing eye contact. He wound up packing up and leaving in the middle of this epiphany though so I didn’t actually get to test it. I decided to just save the crumbs for the next time a similar situation arises. They’ll come in handy, I’m sure. But in the meantime, it’s pretty itchy.
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