Shouldn't "Sexual Harassment" Be About Sex?

I find myself confused these days because of all the allegations in the news of sexual harassment.  I'm almost afraid to express my opinion on the subject.

It's no secret that a man has to walk a fine line in the workplace.  This has been the case for a couple decades, at least.

With fondness, I remember when a woman in the office -- right in the middle of the workplace -- pulled her blouse up to her armpits for me.  To say I was shocked is an understatement.  As I whipped my head around to see if anyone had been watching, I realized that apparently she had already done so.  I guess, with the advent of cubicles, people could easily be shielded from much of what goes on in the office.

And there was the time at the tennis courts when, as I climbed the stairs to the pro's office, a lady player said to me, "Nice legs."  I was pleasantly surprised.  But, really, I thought nothing of it.  Now that I think about it, she may have been eyeing a different part of my anatomy.  Tennis shorts were, well, short back then.  And, I guess some would say, quite revealing.

Harassment?  I don't think so.  There was no touching, true.  But sexually charged for sure.

But there was also the time, now so very vague, when I must have complimented a female office worker on her appearance.  I am certain I said nothing untoward.  Perhaps a word about a nice dress or her looking particularly nice that day.  It wasn't until hours later that I realized I had made a grave mistake, and that my comments could be misinterpreted as "suggestive" or even "harassment."  I anguished over what I had done and apologized to her in private the next day.

I get what groping is.  I am quite sure it is the inappropriate and often rough and forceful handling of another's sexual anatomy.  To be specific, I believe that anatomy to be breasts and crotch area for women.  I had never had to think about how that might apply to men, but I would assume that also meant the crotch area.

Here's the thing.  The genitals and female breasts are "sexual organs," aren't they?  I mean, they do have erectile tissue.  They do respond to sexual stimulation.  What I'm having trouble with is the butt.  The buttocks.  One's ass.

I was reminded that one's appreciation for various parts of the body is a strictly personal thing.  Certain segments of the population have an affinity for the posterior.  (I'm having disturbing flashes of Kim Kardashian, who's stern requires emergency flashers.)

I can see how "cupping" or "grabbing" anyone's butt would be harassment.  Really I do.  But the butt is not some sexual appendage -- no matter how much today's popular culture would make it out to be.  In point:  "Baby's got back."  "Shake your booty."  However, I have a tendency to think that one's behind has become de-sexualized.  Just go to the beach.  Men and women both bare their derriere without a thought.  If it's out there for all the world to see, how is it any different than a shoulder, an elbow or knee?  You can "sexualize" these appendages if you want.  But I would not.

I am appalled by the number of females coming forward and complaining that men have "touched" their butt.  Hey, lady.  It's your butt.  Nothing more, nothing less.  The touch may or may not have been inappropriate, yeah.  But a touch is not harassment.  I hate to see someone's life shattered because of an "innocent" touch.  If, however, the intent was to push on, to "test the waters" or -- worst of all -- begin applying leverage to gain sexual favors, I have a big problem with that.

Now, I'm in no way advocating that all of a sudden it become socially acceptable to touch another person's ass.  Football and other sports butt-patting aside, it's just an area of the human body that is normally kept out of sight and rightfully ascribed to as "private parts."  But it does not fall into the category of "sexual."  It is neither used for procreation nor is it a specialized organ for the nourishment of an infant.  In terms of output, when compared to the genitals or breasts, the buttocks is pretty disgusting.

So, I'd like to see "sexualization" of the butt stopped.  And maybe we can go back to when I was a kid and one's ass was nothing more than the butt of a joke.

Never Miss An Opportunity To Meet Someone New

Today I spied someone anchored off the edge of the property, just over on the neighbor's side. They fished for at least an hour, which was unusual, because most lake fishermen drift by the lakefront quietly, tossing their lines into the lake grass.  But this person anchored and was casting with a small rod out toward the center of the lake.  I was curious and walked down to meet Ralph, a black man, who was catching brim.  Most were too small and he was throwing them back.  But every cast brought back a fish, almost immediately.  

Ralph, who was acquainted with a lakefront property owner on the other side of the lake, was obviously having a good time.  He said he was catching fish to feed the homeless.  I’m going to assume that did not include him, since he had a nice aluminum john-boat with a small, electric kicker on the back.  We talked for a few minutes, about his technique, his bait (red worms), and our preferences for salt- vs. freshwater fishing.  I grew up in South Tampa, off the Bay, and knew only about dropping a line in water that was salt.  Now, living on a lake north of Tampa, I wish I knew more about freshwater fishing.  

I shared with him Beth’s story about releasing a big freshwater catfish in the lake. Interestingly, Ralph said he had never caught a catfish in this lake.  Apparently he fishes the lake often, although I’ve not seen him -- but I may have.  He wears a floppy hat with a cover over the back of his neck.  I have a vague feeling that I’ve seen him out on the lake.  We exchanged first names and Ralph offered to take me out on the lake any time I should see him. In parting, he offered to do any odd jobs around the house, saying he wasn’t afraid to do some hard work.  

I’m glad I took the time to walk down to the lakefront and meet Ralph.  You never know what opportunities you may miss to connect with others if you stay holed up, never opening yourself up to new experiences.  

Just like the other day -- when I walked up to the road-front to get the mail.  There, again, was someone I had only briefly talked to, walking his big, old Great Dane.  We had a great conversation about power outages and … Vietnam.  Turns out we were both there -- he just ahead of me, and during some of the worst fighting.  He’s a retired Master Chief in the Navy, and as a result of our newfound friendship, he offered to loan us his very cool generator the next time our power goes out and he’s not needing it.  

Sometimes I just love being an extrovert, although it’s at times painful.  But what I learned long ago as a newspaper reporter was that everyone IS interesting, has a story to tell, and loves to talk about themselves (me included, as you might notice.)

The Spider In The Nightlight

My friend appears to be doing well.

He lives inside the clear shade of the bathroom nightlight.  I think I named him Ralphie.  But that's because I name all my bugs "Ralphie."  I guess he's a guy, but I'm not sure.  Goes with the name.

I'm not sure how long ago it was when I first realized I always was accompanied when I used the bathroom.  I first noticed small, dark "droppings" on the countertop next to the wall.  They had to be bugs -- dead bugs -- or bug poop.  They would appear, even after I swept them up, directly below an outlet where the LED nightlight is plugged in.  It's one of those with the sensor that switches on at dusk.

Ralphie has hit on something good.  His cool-bulb nightlight guarantees bugs will come around at night.  And there are no shortage of bugs, apparently.  We live in the country and even the new, hurricane-proof windows have gaps around the screens.

At first I didn't think anything was alive inside the shade.  But there were, as I learned later, carcasses in there, some hung up in Raphie's little web.  I was not pleased with the bits of black inside the light, so I unplugged it and looked inside.

Nothing moved.

I was going to dump it -- clean it out with a wet wipe.  But, I thought, what if there were a live spider in there?  I honestly can cohabitate with a small spider -- as long as they stick to their territory.  I have learned this attitude from Beth, who convinced me some time ago to let a rather large garden spider run loose in the bathroom.  So if he were alive, I'd just let him harvest what stray flying insects should wind up in the web.

So, to be sure, I poked the butt-end of a toothbrush in there.  Immediately there was a furious amount of activity inside the shade.  Ralphie virtually vibrated back and forth, his little body whipping to and fro, up and down, sideways.  He was obviously agitated -- but he did not run away.  No.  Not Ralphie.  He froze.  All movement stopped.  I poked again and the agitation began again.  He is so small you can hardly distinguish him from all the little black carcasses.  But he was the only spot moving.

And still he stayed.

Someone -- or something this dedicated to protecting their franchise should not be removed.  Ralphie showed a real determination to stay where he was at any cost.  And so Ralphie the nightlight spider remains on the wall, behind his little clear-plastic enclosure, not far from my ear when I look in the mirror.

When I remember that he's there, I look over and see him (and clean up his mess).  But I'm happy that he gets to live on and enjoy his decision to be the spider in the nightlight.

Update: 6/15/17  I'm sad to report that Ralphie is with me no longer.  Hopefully, he moved on to more fertile grounds.  Realistically, he had a long and prosperous life.  Now I often glance at the empty nightlight and think fondly of my friend.

The Light At The End Of The Tunnel

As I approach my 70th birthday, I am aware that I am aware.

I am aware that I am -- old.  Worse yet, I am aware that my time on this earth is limited.  For me, the light at the end of the tunnel is red.  It's a stop light.  And I am in no hurry to, as they say, "go toward the light."

It distresses me to be thinking this way, to have these thoughts.  Although it's been coming on slowly, the awareness that there is so little time left has been nagging at me for the the last year.

There are several things that are bringing my mortality into sharp focus.

First, there are the funerals.  I retired in 2008 after seeing co-workers, some years younger than me, die of horrible diseases.  I wanted to live life -- what was left of it -- and not regret having worked right up to the day I experience a debilitating heart attack or stroke.  Recently I attended back-to-back funerals.  The first day, the funeral was for a man just a few months older than me.  Believe me, that got me thinking.  The next day I attended the funeral for the father of one of my oldest friends, a friend who is just about my age.  His father had lived to be 95 years old.  Although he was physically frail, his mind was wonderfully sharp.  I was actually jealous because -- given my frame of mind -- I couldn't see me living that long.  And I wanted to.  I still want to.

But recent medical events in my life have me question my own viability.  I won't go into all the details.  Oh, sure, I have the normal aches and pains that I imagine someone my age has.  I ruined both knees long ago playing tennis.  I tore one shoulder decades ago, falling backward in a slimy parking lot.  I tore the other shoulder -- my right shoulder -- playing ping pong.  That's right.  You read that correctly.  I literally threw my arm out of its socket.  The worst part of all this is that I am a shoulder sleeper and go back and forth, from one shoulder to the other, all night long -- waking each time I turn.

The fact that I continuously test anemic is more than worrisome.  The doctors at the VA have all but given up trying to find out why.  My primary physician back in Texas duly noted it, would mention it each time I had blood tests, and then we would not talk about it anymore.  And the fact that my father died of a blood disorder -- the swift onset of chronic leukemia -- does not give me confidence.

For most of my life I've been deadline oriented.  As a newspaper writer/editor, I tackled three deadlines daily for more than a decade.  When I set goals, I usually meet them.  But it may have been a mistake a number of years ago to set one deadline in particular.  That deadline was my death date.  I was meeting with my financial adviser and, as with any good financial plan, we needed to estimate how long I intended to live in order for my savings to be meted out without running out.

"Eighty-five," I said.  "That sounds like a ripe, old age."

Maybe 85 seemed far away when I was in my early 60s.  But it doesn't anymore.  In fact, 80 seems real close -- like that stop light at the end of the tunnel.  I get the feeling I'm managing my life to meet this final deadline.

I hate this futile way of thinking.  I feel disgusted when I wake up in the morning and realize I did nothing the day before that was remarkable.  I took up motorcycle touring in 2005 because I wanted to put something in my life that made my heart beat faster.

I am going to try harder to live my life to the fullest.  I am going to set some more goals, plan more trips, get more involved.  I no longer want life to just seep into me; I want to go out and embrace it.

Maybe, just maybe, I can change that light at the end of the tunnel from red to green.  And if not, at least I raced to the end instead of simply coasting.

Tampa -- City of the Apes

You blew it up.  Ah, damn you.  God damn you all to hell.

These days I often feel like Charlton Heston in the movie "Planet of the Apes."  In particular it's the revelation at the end, where Heston's character realizes he's never left. Only, everything he's ever known about his world has been turned upside down.

I DID leave.  And that's a fact.  But I came back to Tampa.  I've been in Texas since 1989, and there's a standing joke that Texans inflict on outsiders.  If you're to be accepted at all, you say "I wasn't born here, but I got here as soon as I could."  That's about the only way a Texan would give you any credence.  I kind of feel that way about Florida.

On a particular day, at a particular time, I knew I belonged in Florida.  And I remember it like it was yesterday -- only it wasn't.  I was a man in my early 30s, I believe, when I was driving with the top down into the setting sun.  I was going over the hump on Gandy Bridge, with the radio blasting and the wind in my hair and face.  I was in my 1971 Olds Cutlass.

"Yeah!" I yelled, as my eyes scanned the horizon.  "I'm in Florida!  This is where everyone else wants to be."  And that feeling -- that feeling that Tampa was my home, where I was meant to be -- has never left me.

Back then, it was "Tampa town."  Traffic congestion was unheard of, unless one of the bridges across the Hillsborough River got stuck open.  People didn't actually live in St. Petersburg or Clearwater and go to work in Tampa, having to cross the bay via the Gandy or Howard-Frankland bridges, or the Courtney-Campbell Causeway.  No.  No way.  The three cities were all very well defined communities, each with a character all its own.

Today, we live in the Bay.  Quite literally, the marketing Gods would have the rest of the United States and world believe that residents live in a place called Tampa Bay.  Oh!  You mean "Tampa Bay area?"  Well then, why don't you say so?  Any map will clearly show you that Tampa Bay is a body of water, as is Hillsborough Bay, Old Tampa Bay and McKay Bay.

In this topsy-turvy world today, people young and old are fleeing Tampa to live in -- of all places -- St. Petersburg.  Hell, I wouldn't be caught dead living in St. Petersburg unless I was 65 or older.  At least, that's the way I saw it when I was young.  Clearwater was just a sleepy little town whose claim to fame was its fantastic beach.  Today, St. Petersburg's bayfront district is experiencing an incredible resurgence. Gone are the famous green bus benches and shuffleboard courts that catered to senior citizens.  Clearwater is so popular with the ultra rich that they've built walls of condominiums along the beach, screening off the Gulf waters from everyday people.  Why, even the Church of Scientology is in on the act, buying up as much downtown Clearwater property as possible to go along with its downtown world headquarters.

I live out in the country now.  Well, it used to be country.  Now there are thousands of home sites going in just north of us in what used to be pasture land.  Traffic is so bad on our east-west state road that we may have to drive back roads to a nearby intersection with a traffic light in order to be able to get onto or across the highway.  Developers are pushing elected officials to ignore planning efforts and law so that this rural area can be developed to the point where you can look in your neighbor's windows or stare at the three-story tower of town homes.

I grew up in South Tampa.  I could ride my bike down the middle of Howard Avenue, paved with Baltimore Block bricks, and never fear being hit by a car.  Today Howard Avenue is a parking lot.  In some places our wise city fathers have allowed apartments and condos to overshadow the street to the point that you feel you are in a canyon.

I was away from Florida for almost 30 years.  Each time I came back to visit I became more and more aware that "you can't go home again," as the novelist Thomas Wolfe noted.  Things change, and usually not for the better.  I'm certain young people today love Tampa Bay and all its bars, restaurants, malls and attractions.  But, if they could know what I know, see what I saw, and live the life I had back then, they would breathe a deep sigh, and dream of paradise lost.