Who Called You a Rock Star Today?
Twenty-whatever years ago, I was an editor working on Wacker Drive. One hot afternoon, I dashed off to grab lunch wearing a sleeveless shirt — because sweating in a blazer is never worth it to me — and my sunglasses.
The sunglasses probably had rhinestones on them because that’s how I roll, but this trip was such a mundane task on such a routine day that I’m not sure what I had on that day. I crossed the street at the light, and an older, leather-skinned man walked up to me and thrust his face in mine: “OOOO, rock star,” he mocked. And took off.
I wasn’t scared. I was pissed. Who the hell did this jagoff (hey — I’m from Chicago) think he was? Who was he to criticize how I look? Or even dare to approach me, a stranger, at all?
I returned to the office in a huff and blurted out the whole story to my editor. He laughed. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, “he probably just thinks you’re hot.”
Yeah, right.
That’s how it was in the ’90s. No matter how much we bared our arms, wore combat boots or listened to Bikini Kill, men still treated us like we were holes for them to fill — even that editor, whose ass I’d saved again and again with corrections and killer cover stories, who gave me a 10 percent raise and called me a whore in the same week.
But I digress.
This week, someone called me a rock star again.
Actually, two people did: A veteran journalist and a new one forging her own badass path.
Neither saw me. I was sitting in the kitchen wearing a t-shirt, and my sunglasses were tucked in my purse. Those two graciously referred to my work, my journalism, and the impact they said it made on the people I was trying to serve.
I can’t be pissed at the guy who accosted me on the street all those years ago.
He was right: I am a rock star. Today, that would piss him off.
We women need to remind ourselves and each other of that every hour of every day. Wearing cat's-eye sunglasses? Rock star. A dirty sweatshirt? Rock star. Launched your new product? Rock star. Changed a diaper? Rock star. Made it off the couch: Effing rock star.
No man, in the boardroom or bedroom, determines that. We do.
Thanks to the two who boosted my mood this week. My heart swells with gratitude.
Because memes of rock stars are sexist or unbearably stupid, I’m posting a photo of one of my favorites. My muse for the day.
