"I'm Coming Out Of The Woodwork, Chad"
Please watch the short video before you start reading. Also, take note: the words you read in quote marks are Chad's words not mine.
Oh Chad. Chad, Chad, Chad, Chad, Chad. Where do I begin? Okay, I'll begin at the beginning.
I haven't said anything about it in "ten to forty years" and that's on me, but I'm saying something about it now so saddle up, Cowboy.
The first time I didn't say anything about it I was a scrawny twelve-year-old wearing a floor-length flannel nightgown and minding my own damn business in my own damn bedroom.
The second time I didn't say anything about it I was around fifteen-years-old babysitting for a young couple in the little town I was raised in. I don't remember what I was wearing, but I'm sure I was very alluring with Gerber baby food and spit-up on my (probably waaaay too low-cut) baggy t-shirt.
The third time I didn't say anything about it I was seventeen-years-old and at work all alone on a Sunday morning when all of a sudden I wasn't all alone.
The fourth time I didn't say anything about it I was around 32-years-old and at work in a large office building and definitely not alone and definitely not in need of a back, shoulder, butt, or breast rub from the man who signed my paycheck.
The fifth time I actually did, very reluctantly, say something about it when my arms were full of scratches put there by a male coworker I had to fend off more times than I could count. I only brought it up to management once though because after the fallout I received, once was enough.
Now keep in mind, Chad, I'm only mentioning the times I was manhandled. I ain't even talkin' about all the times I was propositioned or leered at or whistled at or what have you. I'm just talkin' about the times I was touched without my consent and no, Chad, the men didn't touch my "no-no square" but they damn sure tried.
"Looka here," Chad, I realize I don't have damn near a million Facebook followers like you and I don't have a cowboy hat or a pickup truck or a pearly white smile. I do have a voice and I've finally found it and I'm going to use it to "wax eloquently" because I'm no longer a scared little kid or a naive teenager or a tired working mom who needs to keep her job. I'm just a woman who has no need of "recognition or promotion." Heck, according to you, Chad, I'm not even a "real woman" because I didn't "take out the trash."
Chad, I'm sorry that I can't accept your sorry because when your sorry is followed immediately by the word "however" that makes your sorry null and void with me so I'm sorry that your sorry is so damn sorry.