The first time I ever went to a drive-in theater with a date, I arrived home with a lifelong dislike of vanilla milkshakes.

I don’t remember his name or him asking me out or anything about the event other than his vanilla milkshake and his tongue halfway down my throat. I was repulsed in so many ways and just wanted to go home but was too young and too stupid and too fucking polite to tell him to stop. I was raised in an era and by people who believed women were put on earth to please men. To placate them. To serve them. And to diminish ourselves in the process.

We were double dating, or it easily would have become a date rape scene. Or perhaps, had we been alone, I would have pushed him away. The women’s movement was burgeoning, but in those early days, it was about sexual liberation not me too.

At least it wasn’t chocolate. I would hate to have had that disastrous date affect my lifelong love of chocolate milkshakes (and malts.) Small mercies.

I was hit on by a guy earlier this week.  This happens less and less as I get older, but still happens.  That this happened after his tentative questions of are you married? (No, but I’m in a committed relationship.) He continued hitting on me and then asked me out explaining that he and his girlfriend were just friends.

I wonder if she knows that.

The whole time he is being this consummate jerk, I am being polite.  What the fuck is wrong with me?  Is my rearing of 40 and 50 years ago still affecting how I respond to assholes?

Moreover, twice in as many weeks, some guy I don’t know has picked up my check at my pre-dawn sojourns at the Waffle House.   I think different guys, but am not sure.  The first one I thanked and hastily left.  The second, I just hastily left.

Why didn’t I say, “Why would you do that?  It’s creepy.  Stop it.”

My waitress thought me lucky. 

We’re still teaching women that unwanted and unsolicited attention from men is flattering.  There I am sitting in my ratty t-shirt, yoga pants, uncombed hair and raccoon eyes clearly not on the prowl.  At 4 am at the Waffle House slurping coffee and digging into eggs over easy.  What possesses a person to think to himself, “I’m gonna buy that fetching wench’s breakfast.”

What is the end game?  How did he think I’d behave?  Or hope I would react?

There’s a meme going around about instead of buying women a drink in a bar, buy them a book at the bookstore.

No.  Just no.  Do not assert your control over me that way.  If you wish to know me, say hello.  Go ahead, ask me out, but bow out politely when I say no. 

No really does mean no. It is not the opening gambit of some weird dating ritual.

And do not mistake politeness for acquiescence.  Some of us were indoctrinated and still fighting old habits. 

But I swear, I’m going to quit being polite after the initial no.  There’s no equity in just one of us being uncomfortable. Perhaps aversion therapy tactics will work. 

I am not going to allow my autonomy to be diminished by anyone – not even the man I love.  Who, by the way, knows better.  This is my declaration of independence.  I am done with it.  Just done.  For heaven’s sake, I’m nearly 64.  I’m reminded of the protest sign carried by the old woman that read “I can’t believe I’m still protesting this shit.”