An Open Letter to the Woman Who Tried to Pee On My Car

An Open Letter to the Woman Who Tried to Pee On My Car Photo by Romi34 via Flickr I am not mad at you. I am mad at myself. I am mad for not seeing the artistry with which you flicked up your khaki skirt in one fluid motion. A motion practiced and executed with the precision and ease of Tiger Woods golf swing. Underneath your skirt were black men’s briefs, your whitey tighties transcending color and logic. You bent down, arched your back, and stuck out your chest. You pressed your pumpkin butt-cheeks against my door handle like a kiss. You paused, hands on knees. There was a moment. A moment that holds so much beauty and significance, that the only appropriate action is to be silent. To try and absorb what you can, though you know you’ll never be able to fully appreciate or understand it. And what I did nextâ€"what I did to that momentâ€"I will regret for the rest of my life. I reached over and pounded my fist against my passenger window. Hey, I shouted, Hey! She turned around and stared at me, and I stared back. Those eyes. You were about to paint the Mona Lisa before me, but I panicked. I panicked the way men panic when confronted with power they can’t understand. All too often, invitations get lost in the mail, and fear knocks on your door when appreciation was meant to. I’m sorry, she said. She pulled her skirt back down as best she could, and took a step forward. I’m so sorry, she said as she turned her head around a final time, taking those eyes with her. No, I am sorry. I don’t know what you had in mind. I don’t deserve to know. I’d like to think you would have doused the flames of conformity with a hearty stream of Gatorade and string-cheese infused pee. I’d like to think you would have lifted the societal veil of deception from my eyes the way you lifted your skirt over those confusingly bumpy hips. I’d like to think you would have not only urinated on my car, but on my heart. If you return to me, I will take your hand. We will waddle our way to Washington, march up the steps of the Lincoln memorial, climb up on Abe’s shoulders, and pee on his face. But you won’t. You’re gone and not coming back. I sent you away, like so many before me. A bathroom? Why? A toilet? Says who? I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself.