084: N is for Nigella

"She reminds me of someone," he says when she just about turns the corner. We are on a ward round, she is a senior physiotherapist and he is a trainee paediatric doctor. I barely know him - he is dressed neatly, with his hair combed back tight and his round glasses balancing on the ridge of his nose. The lens is stylishly in multiple shades of brown so I know appearance matters to him.

"Who?" the ward male nurse asks.

"That chef on television. She's really popular, the British one. What is her name?"

"Mary Berry?"

"No, the sexy one."

Ahhh.. I immediately knows who he means. But I didn't want to participate in this conversation. Let him come to realisation himself.

"Aha! Nigella Lawson!"

"What? No..."the nurse replies.

"Yes, she is small in stature, brunette and she is quite sexy," he says referring to the physiotherapist whilst sniggering to himself.

This succeeded with an awkward pause between the three of us for a good 20 seconds. The nurse averting gaze and diverting conversation, him looking quite pleased with himself, and I. Well, if my mind would speak, it would have shouted in an African American accent, "You say what now?"

That short conversation left a stale taste in my mouth. Like I just vomited up breakfast. If I were that physiotherapist, the mere personal reference of sexual attraction in this professional environment, would not only humiliate but also violate. But I am not her, so maybe to her and to others, my sexual harassment equates to their desired compliment. Where I would slap that doctor hard right across the face, they might blush in flattery, thanking him for his kind words.

Is being called sexy ever a compliment? In my world, this issue only comes in black and white. It is never alright to call a woman sexy unless she is actively asking for it. For instance, it is hard pressed for one to not call women who parade on catwalks in lingerie undesirable. Or if women dress up in tight, short dresses and sky high heels on a night out. But in this case, the woman in question was wearing a long sleeve sweater with long pants. In terms of skin coverage, she was basically covering all bases. The only giveaway was that her clothing cinched at the waist as she tucked in her sweater and wore a belt. This would bring no difference to a skinny, flat chested woman, but she was blessed with a full, hour glass figure - so everything that was covered was somewhat unintentionally revealed.

I don't blame her though, like how I don't blame any woman who are recipients of this sexual gaze. It happens because we are completely or partially naive to the effect our bodies have upon our male counterparts. We cannot begin to see ourselves through their lens. Even the slightest of subtleties are picked up by their radar like the long dress that cinches at the waist, or the skirt that gently hugs our bottom or the lanyard that sits warmly in the cleavage of our two breasts. They see these things, and by ignoring that it exists, we give them more opportunities to look.

But don't get me wrong, don't clothe more modestly for the sake of them. They are not worth it. But if you want, definitely do it for you. For me, I refuse to be looked at in anyway that resembles how the physiotherapist was looked at that day. I am not going to give them any opportunity to. That choice lies with me, and I have made it.

083: NYEs of the past

2011/2012

It was an evening spent in Bayswater. I joined in with his friends in playing Monopoly Cards with subsequent losses. I am competitive when it comes to games, let alone losing badly by men (ugh), so my ego was severely bruised. One of his friends was frantically getting ready for his first date with his long time crush. "We're going to try to see the fireworks," he says whilst rechecking his hair every minute or so in the mirror. Mind you, he was growing his hair out at this stage so his hair brushed his shoulders - a right bother to keep in place. All of us were silently laughing at how nervous he was. I don't know whether their love stood the test of time (ie whether they are still together now).

Him and I planned to go on a proper sit down dinner date that night. We picked a Malaysian restaurant which had good reviews located a mere 10-minute walk away. "Dress up," we said. So we left our friend's flat at 8.00pm, me in a pink flowy kaftan, him dressed in a black (borrowed) blazer and shiny black shoes. This is our version of dressing to the nines. Upon arrival to the restaurant, we ordered plates of yummy food. We enjoy eating, so we pretty much gobbled up a meal meant for four. When we were finished with our main course(s), we decided to order dessert. Then suddenly, the lights went out. Of all the days, NYE was the day there would be a cut to the restaurant's power supply. However, this didn't faze us - how many places could you dine in the dark at anyway? With the slight loss of visual input, my senses compensated, making the room a little bit more noisier.

The clanks of cutleries upon plates, the gasp of excitement upon gossip and the sighs of relief upon eating good food were more apparent. It was 20 minutes until the waitress told us that we would not be able to have dessert because the electrical cut affected the whole building, and that unfortunately included the kitchen. "Oh well, that's a bother," we discussed. "But at least we have eaten!" There were many more hungry customers patiently waiting for food who were also about to receive this disheartening news. I really didn't want to be that waitress right now.

He paid the bill before walking back to our friend's flat. As we were both students at the time, I knew that that dinner came with a heavy price tag - but he insisted on paying it all. I suggested a few days earlier that it would be fun to watch A Walk to Remember. I remember this film vaguely giving me the feels, and since he hasn't seen it I thought it would be a nice experience for the both of us. Somehow rather,  he succeeded in convincing one entire flat of 6 men to give up their television for 90 minutes to watch a soppy love story. Till this day I still admire his methods of persuasion on this account. The result was not the two of us, rather about 10 of us sitting in front of the television watching a film about the love story between a dying girl and a rebel boy. Watching it again with guys, I realised how ridiculous the script actually sounded on fresh, more matured, non-teenage ears. Critical remarks and banter were intermittently tossed by the guys at the television screen, ruining the movie altogether for me. Suddenly, each scene was more melodramatic and unrealistic than what I remembered.

It could be that it was just the fact that they are men, and they just don't get it. Or it could have been a lightbulb moment of realisation I needed to no longer be in denial of how soppy some romantic films are. The movie ended minutes shy of midnight. Then, the already noisy streets filled with cheers and the thunderclap of fireworks. We watched the coloured lights from the windows welcoming 2012.

An interesting end to an interesting night.