It kind of got… awkward, though. Let me explain.
So, I got a job because the allowance my parents gave me simply wasn’t cutting it anymore. I went to McDonald’s because I knew it would be easy to get hired. I didn’t think about the uniform situation. Being 15, hetero and female, naturally I was completely boy crazy and when I realized I would be wearing polyester pants, a polo shirt and McChoke’s visor, I thought, Great, there goes any potential to find a boyfriend at work. I looked like a short, blonde Jack Nicklaus with tits about to flip burgers at Pebble Beach. The uniform… was horrific.
I had a day of orientation during which 4 of us were crammed into a greasy back room and forced to watch Micheal Jordan preach the joys of teamwork while he had his arm around Ronald McDonald. Next to me, sat my best guy friend, Jay, who I was completely in love with, and with whom I had just spent a sleepless weekend on his living room floor rescuing Zelda and ridding Hyrule of evil forces. We were pretty inseparable, and so he got a job with me. On my other side sat a Ronald McDonald look-a-like, and I know you think I am exaggerating, but I am not. The man had a red ‘fro, freckled face, braces with bright neon blue and pink elastics on them and the kicker: he walked with a cane… because he actually needed one. I felt my heart flutter when he leaned in to crack a joke about the shine on Jordan’s head. I had a thing for weirdos.
So there I was. Sandwiched in between the man I loved and a man who made my heart go funny, dressed in polyester and golf tournament swag. They would never notice me…
I was wrong.
By the end of the first month of flipping Big Macs, I was dating red ‘fro, getting jealous phone calls, glances and remarks from Jay, and I had a marriage proposal, I shit you not, from my tubby 30 year old Chinese manager, who promised that if I said yes, he would promptly buy me a house and a Baby Blue 1967 Shelby. The Shelby was tempting…
So things got… awkward. And I stopped going. And I got fired.
I walked away with a whole new understanding of men, though. No matter what you’re wearing; no matter how you look, their dip stick is like a divining rod for poontang, like a rigid Irish setter on a duck hunt pointing directly at Daffy.
“There be beaver here!” You can almost hear their little peckers charge.
They will find you in a snowstorm, in a tsunami, and even under layers of polyester, unappetizing brown stripes and greasy bottomed work shoes.
You cannot dress in a way that will eliminate a man’s previously burning desire to shuck your clam. If he wanted it when you had a little red dress on, he’ll still want it when you’re in a potato sack.
So, when I came across this post about a Christian woman throwing away her leggings to make things “easier” on the men around her, I had a good enough laugh to offend the almighty himself.
Was it possible my wearing leggings could cause a man, other than my husband, to think lustfully about my body?
Yeah Shirley Temple, you know what else makes men feel lustful about women’s bodies? Everything. Even, as I found out, when you bend over the McNugget fryer in your Indonesian-made, grease-absorbing, navy blue polyester britches to wipe up a lump of dried McChicken sauce.
Sure, if a man wants to look, they are going to look, but why entice them?
And of course, removing your leggings from the rotation oughtta put an end to the enticement, right? Better idea: Remember that documentary by Morgan Spurlock where he ate nothing but Macdo every day? Yeah. Do that. Stop going to the gym. Stop exercising. Remove all greens from your diet. Stop brushing your hair, and for that matter, your teeth. Maybe take up smoking. Never paint your nails again, or do your makeup. Try to get up to say, 300 pounds, maybe three-fiddy, then roll in cow shit, stop showering and greet every motherfucker you meet with, “Have you heard the good word?”. Even then, some fetishist is going to find you enticing, doll.
We like the way each other looks, honey. It’s okay. It’s perfectly okay for a man to look at another woman and feel a tingle in his trousers. Yes, even if he’s married. We are built that way.
Every morning I swim, and in this town, everyone is health conscious, so there are often hard bodies in the lanes with me. A serious male swimmer, always wears a speedo. This may be a farming community, but ladies, let me tell you, Old McDonald has a bulge. Mommy can’t help but notice from time to time, and sat right there in the middle of a swimmer’s physique, I’d have to be dead not to appreciate what I see.
If Godless Dad was right there beside me, he wouldn’t care. He might even crack a joke about banana hammocks.
There is nothing wrong with that. We are animals with sex drives. We are built to be attracted to others of our species. We have the instinctual need to fuck.
How freeing it is to finally realize that’s perfectly okay; to celebrate your sexuality and accept your humanness. There is no shame in desires of the flesh. Go ahead and look. As Bill Nye said in his book Undeniable,
Being a nerd, I did not anticipate going to my high-school prom. Nevertheless I did. I was driven to do so, apparently, by the shape of Leith’s legs, a (clearly) female classmate. This fascination with sex is, near as anyone can tell, not something we get to choose. Our ancestors bequeathed it to us. It’s another one of those deeply shared evolutionary traits. It’s a drive we cannot disengage. – Bill Nye