Open Letters:

From Me to Some of Everyone

In an open letter to the woman who just coughed openly above my head at this event,

“I am struggling not to ‘call you out your name.’ I am barely holding on.”

In an open letter to autocorrect,

“I did actually mean leotard. I did not mean leopard.”

In an open letter to her son who keeps running off with all of the batteries,

“In theory, no one should ever run off with a single woman’s batteries. What if I really, really needed those.”

In an open letter to the man with whom I engaged in small talk as I ate my dinner at the bar,

“Why would you ask me how much I weigh? Why would you push on the question once I told you, clearly, that I wasn’t going to answer that.”

In an open letter to the lady who reached over my shopping cart in the store in order to start putting her items on the belt,

“I sensed a little anger from you because I didn’t move my shopping cart forward when you thought I should. However, your four-year-old’s fingers were a couple inches away from the wheels of the cart, so I decided to, you know, spare his fingers. I’m trying to be a better person, so I not going to hope that you seethed all of the way home.”

In an open letter to whomever dropped what appeared to be a super or super-plus tampon in the parking structure a few months ago,

“I still feel guilty for not saying anything. I got paralyzed. I didn’t know what to say. You were at least a floor above me. I hope that you had another one, or at least that were wearing black pants, or that you have someone at your job who slipped you a tampon. I vow to be that person at my job who will happily provide both ibuprofen and tampons to those in need. I hope you can forgive me.”

In an open letter to the man who asked me whether my son was my boyfriend,

“Basically everything that you said, sir, were inside thoughts that you let out. Especially the part where I informed you that the young man was my son and you responded with, ‘I was thinking he got himself a good looking girl….” 

In an open letter to the man old enough to be my father who grabbed my rump during a public event celebrating the eclipse,

“I wish I would have ‘accidentally’ stepped on your foot. Hard. Also, is there no stolen touches etiquette? A more polite way to violate a stranger? Couldn’t you have done with a knuckle graze rather than an actual deliberate squeeze? Also, couldn’t you grab and go rather than stay nearby. Sir, you are disgusting. Additionally, you are a small man.”

In an open letter to the police officer who pulled up beside me as I walked home in the dark and asked me if I needed a ride,

“Officer, you scared the bejeezus out of me! Also, is that standard protocol?”

In an open letter to the middle-aged man who looked directly at my breasts as I exited the store while he entered,

“Sir, if you are going to unflinchingly make direct eye contact with me after boldly staring at my chest, I am going to unabashedly roll my eyes at you.”