As I passed him, a man working at a booth in the mall whistled. At me. Probably at me. I mean, I'm almost certain.
I was wearing my winter coat and pushing a stroller containing my exquisitely wonderful 11-month old, which made it more exciting to get whistled at. It's funny how, when you're under 30, you want to clobber the louts who wolf-whistle at you. When you're over 30, you think maybe you should give them $5 tips, those sweet gentlemen!
So I walked away thinking, "Go, me. That classy mall worker thinks I'm a hot mama. It must be so! This bulky coat can't contain my explosive inner hottitude."
But then I second-guessed myself. Maybe there was a gorgeous little college woman walking next to me and I didn't notice her because I was too busy cultivating my inner hottitude. Maybe that was someone else's whistle that I was taking credit for.
And I briefly contemplated walking back to the mall worker and asking, "Excuse me, but was that me you were whistling at?" ("It was? Oh, thank you. Here's $5.")
But I still remember asking if there really was a Santa Claus and getting the honest answer, and two crushing disappointments in one lifetime might have been too much to bear, so I just pushed that stroller right outside. My self-esteem has been in limbo ever since.
Pardon me. I need to go find a construction site.