why won't old men leave me alone?

the blessing and the curse of being a girl people talk to

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I open up TikTok to a message from my best friend Abby. All I can see is a thumbnail that reads: “3 SIGNS OF A HIGH VIBRATIONAL PERSON” and her message below, saying “YOU!!!!!!!”

I’m flattered, because I sense it’s going to say something cute (we often send each other those ‘this is us in another life’ tiktoks).

What I learn, after watching the video, is that a “High Vibrational Person,” is someone who:

1. Animals and children are drawn to

2. Strangers easily approach

3. Can trigger others with their light

Today I want to talk about that second point.

Strangers have always approached me, and most of the time I love it. When I was travelling Canada and the USA last year with my dad, I genuinely had to start a tally chart in my notes to count the number of people who came up to me to compliment my clothing, or ask where I got something. I took a tally chart not to be vain, but because I thought I might write about it one day. Huh.

Once, when I was walking through a department store with another bestie, Nick, he pulled me aside and asked if I’d noticed the little girls staring at me from the aisle over. He told me that the way young people look at me with admiration is one of the things he loved the most about being out with me.

I’ll be honest, I mostly love being approached by strangers. Please ask me for directions! Yes I’ll tell you where my shoes are from! My dream life is living in a community where everyone knows each other and lends each other sugar and looks after one another’s kids, and we all share in the burdens and glories of daily life. I’m a community girl! I get it from my Dad.

But there are times, of course, that a certain type of man takes advantage of the openness I seem to have - my ‘High Vibrational Energy” if you will.

When I first moved to Wellington, Abby and I went to get a pie. When we got to our spot, the line was snaking out the door, so I asked Abs if she thought it was worth it.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing”, said an old dude in front of us.

He seemed nice enough and we had a polite giggle with him. But then, for the rest of the duration of our time in line, he insisted on listening to our entire conversation and adding his two cents, even when he was quite obviously no longer part of the conversation. After a few interruptions, I turned to Abby and told her that I really don’t like when this happens - when men can’t read that their involvement in our conversation is no longer warranted, and she agreed with me.

He was annoying but harmless, and inserted himself a few more times before we moved along and got our pies. All good.

All good, until the weekend where the nosy men were out in force.

My housemates and I were on a roadie, and had stopped to look in a few thrift shops. We’d stopped in a town whose name is an indication, perhaps, of the type place where men in utes and stubbies live: “Hunterville.”

In the thrift store I saw a box of 1950s magazines, so obviously I picked one up to flick through. A rough-as-guts old dude who would have been in his 70s I reckon, entered the store and started mooching around in my direction. When he got to me, he stopped, leaned over, and asked me what the ‘language’ was like in the magazines. Me, giving him the benefit of the doubt, thought he meant the 1950s kiwi prose, so I read out a few headlines about cooking and teaching (this was the 1950s remember?) As I was reading he interrupted me, saying:

“Ahh yes, back when we used to speak English, no like we do now.”

Note: For those who don’t live in New Zealand, there has been a conscious and necessary effort to reinvigorate our native language, Te reo māori, much to the disgust of those who grew up in an age where they could go to school, get a job, buy a house or two or three and now have nothing bigger toworry about than our street signs saying both “school” and “kura.”

“I prefer it now,” I said, closing the magazine and walking away.

By this point I’d decided the conversation was over (we’re allowed to do that), but he had other ideas.

“Why?” he pushed on, but I was done with entertaining this man, so I walked over to Abby and described what had just happened.

We were still talking about how much we hate when men insert themselves like this as we walked into the dusty little bottle shop. And then it happened again. The oldish man from the corner shop spotted us, came outside, and said to me

“Nice top, did you make that yourself?”

“No,” I replied, and we edged closer to the liquor store, thinking this conversation was over. Again, he had other ideas.

“What, did you lose a bet or something? Is that why you’re wearing it?”

For context I was wearing a cute woollen vest with cherries and flowers sewn on it.

“She’s wearing it because it’s gorgeous,” Abby shot back, and we entered the store.

Inside the bottle shop, things weren’t much better. We were mansplained the importance of having our IDs checked by man in his early 40s with a rats tail poking out from under a busted cap for some insignificant sports team. He made what should have been a 30 second interaction into a 2 minute lecture. Plus, I was only buying ice.

The next day, after we arrived to our destination, we all took a ride on a small model train, which was manned by a couple of lovely old women. They joked with us about how cute it was that we (a group of adults) were doing something so kiddish. They loved it. We loved them. They complimented the vest that the man in Hunterville hated.

After that, we were in a homeware store and the two women behind the counter told me how much they loved my vest, asking if I made it myself. I told them that no, I didn’t, and they told me I should claim it.

At this point, I couldn’t help it, I told them about the old man who asked me if I’d lost a bet (see - I told you I don’t hate conversations with strangers when they’re giving the right energy!!!)

The two nice woman said they hoped I told the man to fuck off (mouthing it, rather than saying it, as there were children around.)

I didn’t tell any of these men to fuck off. That’s not in my nature. Instead, I reached for my notebook, and started writing this.

Old men, in a world where you can be nosy and interested in literally anything you want, please can you refrain from concerning yourself with my business?

Go and tinker with your fishing rod or something.