It was a dark, cold Saturday night. The wind whipped down Green Street like locusts on a chili dog. I beetled my way across in a jean skirt and boots. Just as I was only three minutes away from the haven that was pizza, a warm bed and Roseanne reruns, the unthinkable happened. Someone – who shall remain nameless only because I don’t happen to know the lameass’s name – from a nearby pickup truck yelled out to me “Hey, how much, cowgirl?”

While my first reaction was to yell out in a fit of exasperated rage, “I am not a cowgirl! Southern Illinois is not the South!” I contented myself with the middle finger. But as he tooled off in his love bug built for two, I realized that wouldn’t change a thing.

It wouldn’t stop my friend from having a similar experience on Unofficial in which someone yelled “Hey! Pink sweater! Pinky, where’s your green? Pinky, two in the pink, one in the stink!” It wouldn’t stop Liz Aleman from chasing a man into Burger King after he commented on the fact that her knees showed by saying “Hey, I can lift up your skirt and f-k you if you want!” It wouldn’t stop me from shimmying home down Green Street every weekend night to the tune of “Slut! Whore! Ho!” or “Hey! Come try out my hot tub!”

Just for the record, I am really not a whore. By which I mean: I do not accept money for sexual favors. Yet. So what’s with all the confusion? Why can’t I walk home without having certain people want to parade their manliness in front of me? Could it be that I really am just that sexy?

While that is a definite possibility, I think the answer is twofold. On the one hand, my friends and I were all wearing skirts when we were screamed at. Ergo, we’re whores. Because nothing screams “Take me, I’m yours!” like a knee-length jean skirt. Or maybe something about our coats and our scarves just said “Take me home! I’m dying for it!” It’s hard to say.

However, it’s important to note that it isn’t just men who scream obscenities at us from cars. Women play a huge part in this game. For those of you who have never been in a girls’ bathroom at a bar, let me tell you, it can go one of two ways. A) Everyone is ridiculously nice and handing each other toilet paper. Hey, thanks, girl. I love that perm. Or B) Feuds that began in line three hours ago are continuing to rage on, hair is being tossed quite haphazardly, and insults such as “Hey, do you have Fetal Alcohol Syndrome?” are cast around like bait for the willing.

So why should it offend certain women that my friend or I or whomever should choose to wear a skirt? The last time I checked, I didn’t take it from out of their closets. What’s with the staring, the ostracizing and the childishness that rears its Shannon Doherty head at the bars? I have no idea. So if you are reading this and you pushed me last month at Brother’s – yeah, I haven’t forgotten – how about you write in and tell me why. With your address.

Aside from this woman-on-woman crime just being annoying, it also tells men that it is okay to treat strange women like that. If a woman can walk by and yell “whore” at me, a man would feel that he had the same right. Sure, some of you might be wondering why I even care about random yelling. Even I have to admit, the cowgirl thing was pretty funny.

But maybe, just maybe, if things like that didn’t happen, women wouldn’t have to mouse around campus at night. Maybe half of the girls on this campus still wouldn’t be walking around with that useless rape whistle. Maybe the ending of this dehumanization would lead to the ending of other forms of dehumanization.

So the next time you drive by me and feel the absolute need to yell something at me, be warned. Unless it’s Billy Ocean’s “Get out of my dreams, get into my car,” I’m going to go cowgirl on your ass.