Parked in neutral, she was one of the guys
THERE are several items I bring to work every day: my laptop, my cellphone, my coffee and my breasts. Yes, that’s what I said. Every day I go to work, and every day they seem to come along with me. So when a recent assignment plopped me square in the middle of an all-male environment, I found it puzzling that the men I work with felt the need to comment on them every single day. Surely these boys had seen a woman before. They certainly saw me on a daily basis.
On this job, the setting was an auto body shop where the air was sticky and the seats were grimy. There were plenty of cars and power tools and, as it turned out, even more exhaust. By the end, half of me wanted to sue and the other half would have settled for pouring a fuzzy navel down somebody’s carburetor. I’d stayed for the paycheck, of course, though as a side benefit I was afforded a window into what goes on inside a guy’s mind, not to mention his garage.
Every girl believes she knows what guys say when she’s not around; after several months of on-the-job research, I now have the misfortune of actually knowing.
It was apparent from the beginning: To endure the company of men without women, I’d have to strip my drivetrain and replace it with a stronger, sturdier assembly. My girlfriends were curious and wanted reports, so I packed up my essentials and headed to work.
Day 1: Icebreaker. I thought up the usual questions, including favorite books, last vacation, hidden tattoo. But I wound up answering, “When you shower, what is the first thing you wash?”
Initially it was fun. I was kept constantly on my toes, which, I learned, makes my legs look great. But slowly I started questioning if all this research would reveal anything positive. I endured details of the bodily functions, tales of last night’s tail and the ogling of every innocent woman walking down the street. It seemed that no matter how much they respected me, they ran straight through the “appropriate” line as if we were in Red Rover playoffs.
Unlike in other male crowds where one might caution, “Hey, there’s a lady in the room,” this particular bunch didn’t seem to care. I don’t think it was because I was working with half the inhabitants of Noah’s ark; I think it was because I was always here. My horror was never more colossal than the night they were bored. The guys dared one of their own to drink an entire bottle of Caesar dressing. He did it, willingly.
Meanwhile, my weekly status reports to my girlfriends were becoming increasingly disheartening. I started to realize why many of us are still single. It’s not simply that we won’t put up with it; it’s that we don’t even understand what we’re not putting up with.
I was treated like one of the guys, which was in a way flattering, except for the fact that I was not one of the guys.
Did playing along help? I did join their fantasy football league. Nine guys and me. I’m a diehard football fan, and although I’d never played fantasy, 15 weeks into the season I heard one of the guys utter those magic words: “Do you realize we could lose to a girl?”
I beat them all, every last one of them, and although I’m not sure it furthered my research, it did give me enough strength to keep my sanity in mint condition.