E Ellis Allen (girlonstilts.com)

It’s been one of those days. I woke up to discover global warming was alive and well, taking a toll on my refrigerator. An inch of bog at the bottom of my freezer, a river of water running down the face — my ice cubes had all melted, taking with them all my perishables.

Buying a refrigerator is not something I enjoy doing. I don’t have a dream list of the perfect counter-depth, sub-zero appliance. They all look the same, with the difference being the range of shocking sticker prices.

However, before all this happened — 

It’s been extra hot in Utah lately — extra hot everywhere, actually — and needing to take my fur baby for her morning walk before the temperatures soared and roasted the poor crazy bitch, I set off.

The heat led me to slip on short, body-exposing athleisure wear — the same summer uniform I see daily, if only on people half my age — which, by the way, is ageism, and a gal at any age, at any time, can wear what she wants and “get away with it,” so deal with it.

After returning home, the deluge coming out of my Frigidaire, puddling onto the wood floor, revealed that said appliance was officially dead and it was time to replace it.

Worried about the duration of our food, my husband and I made the trek to Lowes right then and there, keeping our fingers crossed that a sale, availability, and delivery of the appliance were in the cards.

We separated as we wandered down the aisles, comparing one giant metal box equipped with a TV and computer monitor with a lackluster model boasting only French Doors and freezer drawers.

Bry stopped and chatted with a salesperson while I decided to cheat during our Refrigerator buying expedition and cast a wandering eye towards the next appliance we’ll need to replace as our dishwasher no longer dries — Oh, when it rains…

This is where I was when it happened.

I noticed an older man in his late 70s, wearing a button-down shirt tucked into freshly pressed Khakis and sensible sneakers, using his shopping cart like a walker.

I had felt his piercing gaze, repeatedly looking me over from head to foot. I ignored it, continuing to the opposite section to create a visual barrier of dishwashers between us.

The man picked up his pace. He turned the corner and aimed the cart right at me.

I thought the man might have had a depth perception problem and didn’t recognize that he’d taken the corner too sharply.

I stepped back, moved over, and gave him plenty of space to maneuver. He continued coming at me.

It wasn’t until I saw the glare in his eye, the set jaw, and the grimace on his face that it occurred to me that weak eyesight wasn’t his problem. I was.

For some backstory, I live in a very conservative state, where a standard dress code is observed, and often, through scowling judgment, it is enforced. This has been the case until the last ten years, ever since the great pilgrimage of Californians has flocked to Utah.

They’ve come like a great golden state spear, cutting through the conservativism shield, releasing those of us less-conservatives to run free in our LuLu Lemons and tank tops, daring to don skin, including our “porn” shoulders — we rejoice!

More than likely, this older man was not from California, nor did he appreciate my shoulder and leg-baring plight. To the point, he aggressively forced me against a row of dishwashers, narrowly missing me altogether — and then he moved on — having put me in my place.

I was shocked, shaken, and shamed.

It’s surprising how often a seemingly small situation can lift up or completely dismantle a person. From zero to sixty, one can feel really good about oneself with a single, “Hi! It’s nice to see you,” and sixty to zero at the end of a grocery cart.

I hate that I let this man bully me this way. I hate that my knee-jerk reaction was to search for help among the other men — all there, all in sight, and all ignoring it.

Within the blink of an eye, I became completely undone, and I despise myself for it. Why couldn’t I say something? Do something? Why didn’t I grab his cart and stop it? Why didn’t I say, “Hey, excuse me?” or “What’s your problem?”

I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I had.

Some may think this is insane- nobody would behave like that. Or there must be a misinterpretation somewhere that maybe the man didn’t mean anything by it…

They may say it was my self-consciousness about wearing something I’d already said is usually worn by women half my age that I was too sensitive and projecting.

And then there will be those who wonder what in the world global warming has to do with any of this. Well, nothing really other than it’s hot, and maybe besides a wardrobe change, we’re all subconsciously mad about the heat.

They may question why I am writing about something so small that it can easily be explained away as a misinterpretation. And you may believe I’m blowing it out of proportion.

That’s the problem with situations like these.

They are small micro-aggressions driven by macro-negative energy. That’s the difference.

That dynamic — a micro-aggression powered by blunt force energy- makes it easy for someone to wield because who would believe it?

If we look at it from another point of view, would the conclusion be different?

Say the man was innocent of this, and it was an accident.

Then why wouldn’t he apologize when he had me pinned against a machine? Why wouldn’t he have moved a nth degree away? Why wouldn’t he have stopped well before?

Why wouldn’t he have done the same thing to other customers, standing around in the same area?

Why would he have glared and grimaced directly at me, keeping me caught between an appliance and a hard place even for a fraction of a second?

I wanted to write this to understand what happened and why I felt so defeated all day.

It’s not the distress of having an expensive appliance die or the sudden expense. It’s the failed expectation that I have value enough to wear what I want, when I want, and feel safe doing it wherever I am. Do you agree?

Have you experienced micro-aggressions that left you wondering about your value? If so, spill. If not, it’s probably because you’re the aggressor. Stop doing that!