I take your point, my dear.  How could I help 
but feel indignant for your sake, mad at 
that jerk for—what was your word?  Right, 
objectifying you.  You’re not a floor 
lamp or a Maserati.  
			We’re all 
subjects to ourselves of course, and men would 
do well to acknowledge that—agreed.  
But haven’t we looked in mirrors all our 
lives?  Appraised ourselves before stepping out?  
Are we then objects to ourselves?  
					Men can’t 
help checking out women—or women men, 
if they’re honest.  It’s natural or, as you’d say, 
programmed in.  But it’s how men look and how 
we read their staring.  Wrong looks make us think 
of what they’d like to do to us—to, not with.
But, take it from me, the day you stop being
an object isn’t a red-letter one.  
In the Middle Ages, holy days were marked 
on calendars with red letters.  You’ll find 
when that day comes, my dear, years and years from 
now, the first letter won’t be red.  
				       Most men 
do fall short, though.  I’m thinking of all 
those male painters aiming at beauty but 
turning out pretentious pornography.  
You’ve seen their odalisques.  Give me an old 
woman by Rembrandt any day.  That man 
could paint from the inside out.  He’d pour as much 
effort into the portrait of a crone 
like me as one of his much-loved Saskia.  
What’s blamable, offensive, obnoxious, isn’t 
the male gaze but when it’s no more than that.  

When I was your age, presentable and  
unmarried, two men at work took an interest— 
but in such different ways.  Both were single 
and I had yet to meet Podolski.  
Herb praised my outfits and my hair, but he 
was leering elsewhere, so his compliments 
felt like insults.  But Roger, well Roger 
looked too, but he didn’t leer.  He never 
complimented anything about me.  
On the contrary, he found fault with what 
virtues I had as much as with my flaws.  
He belittled my work, mocked my accent,
scoffed at my opinions.  And yet somehow, 
my dear, somehow all his insults felt like 
compliments.  
	          What?  Me and Roger?  Oh yes.