I Miss the Catcalls

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I know what you’re thinking—I can feel the collective gasp of the passionate feminists from miles away (and yes, I identify as one). I can almost hear the eye rolls and the muttered claims of being conditioned by this awful, misogynistic society. I’m not here to argue about whether it’s right or politically correct; I’m simply stating that I miss those catcalls.

When you’re younger, catcalls come at you from every angle, and it can feel like too much to handle. I often felt exposed and vulnerable, and there were plenty of days when I just wanted to blend into the background. The constant attention can wear you down, especially by the time you hit 27 and have endured around 14 years of being shouted at. So, ladies, I totally understand.

But then, without you even realizing it, those catcalls dwindle from a roaring tide to a mere trickle. Gradually, it becomes so subtle that you hardly notice it. You might convince yourself that you’ve simply become immune to them, and maybe even pat yourself on the back for rising above it. Here’s the kicker, though: it’s not that you’re not hearing them; they’ve just stopped coming. Ouch.

Let me clarify—I still consider myself attractive. I take care of my appearance; I don’t don mom jeans or frumpy sweats. Occasionally, I’ll receive a compliment from a man, possibly an octogenarian with trifocals rushing to see his urologist, and it still gives me a little thrill. I’ll admit it—when I hear even the slightest compliment, it can make my day and keep me smiling for days to come.

As we age, the decrease in catcalls can serve as a major wake-up call. Some women choose to go down a path that isn’t pretty: the plunging necklines and skin-tight jeans, dancing provocatively long before the streetlights flicker on. It’s easy to scoff at those ladies when you’re young because it’s hard not to feel a bit sad for them.

The other path, while not without its challenges, feels a lot more tolerable. It’s the “I’m a wife/mom, and I have to act like it” route. Meeting at Chili’s for drinks in a cute top and jeans feels like a small victory, but you still have to rush home to pack lunches for the next day. Yes, it looks mature and responsible, but it lacks the adrenaline rush of being eyed appreciatively by the male crowd.

I hate to say it, but those catcalls were a form of validation; they reminded me that I was attractive. Isn’t that what we’re all after? Most of us are trying to leverage our appeal to find a nice partner, settle down, and create a family in the suburbs. So, with that life achieved, you’d think I’d be basking in contentment.

And I am—most of the time. I adore my life, my husband, and our boys. I had my fair share of attention and fun. I’m (mostly) happy to pass the baton to the younger generation. But every now and then, I find myself missing the thrill of those catcalls.

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In summary, while the catcalls of youth can be overwhelming, they also serve as a strange form of validation that can be missed as we transition into more mature roles in life.