I stopped by Starbucks this morning, hoping for twelve ounces of energy or something, and walked into my local to stand in line. Behind me, lounging on a circle of sofas as you can usually find them in the mornings, were some of the younger retirees of the community. We’re talking late 40s, early 50s.

My local is close to work, situated in the town center of a very affluent community. It is highly likely that the men behind me drove cars worth more than my house. I digress.

While I was standing there, two girls in their school gym/track uniforms were walking out, and one of the men engaged them as they were trying to leave, asking what year they were in school. They picked up speed, said they were graduating, and then hurried out the door.

As they were leaving, while they were still within earshot, that man let out a low whistle and said, “They’re about to be fair game. Couple of months, and those little hotties are legal–fair game.”

I cannot even tell you how quickly that ignited my rage. I turned around in all my mother-of-a-pre-schooler glory and gave them the nastiest, most disgusted mother-look I could manage, and said, “Really? Ech.” I made eye contact with all three of them, shook my head and turned back around. They demurred, then giggled nervously, and changed the topic of conversation to baseball.

No. Tolerance.

Fair game? Like it is duck hunting season and they have targets painted on their backs.

I have news for you, Men. We are not prey. We are not objects. We are not here for your pleasure.

I realize that I am rapidly approaching an age of invisibility, where my lack of youth will make it easy for you to dismiss me and my opinion as not being worthwhile–after all, sagging breasts are a sign of dementia. I am past the point of being looked upon as something pleasurable. I’m sure you think that I am just jealous that you weren’t eyeballing me when I walked into the store, and I’m sure you think you’re quite the catches anyway. Let me tell you something: You’re not.

You are gross. You are disgusting. You are jokes. You were nasty when I was a cute teenager, and you’re nasty now that I am a grown woman.

How dare you invade those girls’ space with your leering and your commentary? Those girls went into Starbucks to pick up drinks on their way to school, wearing school uniforms-clothing they were required to wear, not outfits they had chosen–and you turned it into a gauntlet of drooling boobs they had to run in order to do something that should have been safe and mundane. You turned children, because those were children, into punchlines for your libido, and you didn’t give a damn how that made them feel. All you saw were parts, not people, and you treated those girls like tits and asses, not like human beings. You should be ashamed.

If I ever caught my son doing something like that, I would be ashamed.

I have no idea how to end this blog entry. So, I’m just going to wander away muttering about trash, and new money.