Dirt

Some guys were trying to find the best way to describe a person that they recently met and they jokingly used the descriptions "blonde" and "big cans" amongst others. Although I can expect such conversations to take place freely in a public domain, such discussions kick me to the ground when they occur within professional boundaries.

When I realised who they were talking about, I responded with a dumbfounded laugh. I questioned the relevance of how she looked. And when the answer of her name held no significance or sign of apology, I turned back to my monitor. Disgusted that I was included in the discussion. Ashamed that I did nothing to show them how rude they were.

Call me sensitive. Fine. But I was upset. I pumped up the volume of the car stereo when I drove home to drown out my discomfort. How dare they? How dare they diminish... no, disrespect... wait, objectify her! Is that what they see when they look at her. Are all her merits and achievements dismiss-able by the colour of her hair or the shape of her body?

And is that how they see me but hell, with a dimmer light, with my dark hair and what have you? Do I then, have to go the extra mile to prove myself? To break these physical perceptions the hell ["hell" being a polite replacement of a more suiting four-lettered word] down?

Like the dirt on the ground beneath us, comments like these can hit us blind. And when we let it get to us, it overwhelms us. But with our heads held high, we need to keep on walking. To dust it off our shoulders with style.

So be it.

Perception being my best change of heart, I will not let this taint my image of them. I have always thought of them as nice, respectable, motivated young men. Ones who put a real smile on my face and are down to earth. And I still believe them to be.

Here's to believing.