The urban legend of men thinking of sex every three seconds or some other frequency akin to breathing is bad enough, but when you’re in a career where people happily work for 16 hours a day and you do the math, it can stop you in your tracks.
I’ve chosen the sophisticated coping mechanism of putting my fingers in my ears and singing “LA LA LA LA NO NO NO NO” in an effort to not spend anytime contemplating the inner thoughts of my straight male colleagues wrt me, though admittedly with some more human compassion than I might have had 15 years ago. (I know, get over myself already. But if I was, I wouldn’t be blogging. Or at least writing this blog.)
For example, now I can even joke about being seen by some as first prize in the Nerd Derby, seniors division. (If you want to know who “won”, it’s as simple as HTTP – Henrik Takes Total Power. ;)
Back to the dudes. Maybe the thoughts cross their minds about me and others, and the closest I can get in terms of a confession is from a couple of sympathetic double-agents who assure me it’s nothing personal, just biology. I’m beginning to believe them.
Still, it’s hard not to take it personally when it’s your person being, uh, thought about. I doubt there isn’t a woman who hasn’t looked a colleague in the eye and was startled to feel the shirt and straps slip from her shoulders, then had to cross her arms to keep from the draft. Is that why shawls, wraps and pashminas are so appealing? Easy cover?
For the record, I’m not saying that women don’t “think” about “it”, but it’s not omnipresent. We’re too busy working. (Oh snap!)