It's a drizzly Friday in Chicago and I'm leaving a bar with my roommate sometime after midnight. We’re on a quest for tacos and we’re discussing the finer points—Should we get pork or beef? From where? How many?—when you decide to make our conversation your business. You’ve been loitering outside the bar with your friends, but you hear the word “taco” and soon you’re in lock step with us, asking us about our "tacos," laughing, hooting back to your friends. We push past—literally shoving you—and continue on our way.
Here are some things you should know about my week: I'm on the phone with my mom on my way to yoga when a guy leans out of a doorway, drags on his cigarette and gestures with his pelvis how much he is enjoying my yoga pants. I'm walking home from the grocery store and a middle-aged guy, maybe high, maybe drunk, yells at me, "Get back here, girl!" I’m waiting for the bus when a carful of bros whips by; one leans out the passenger window, points at the girls waiting at the bus stop and yells, "Yes, Yes, No...Yes!" After work, I'm walking from the train to my apartment and four teenagers are trailing me, discussing my body, guessing measurements; they know I can hear them.
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