Cat calls, New York City Style

Walking through Thompkins Square Park in the East Village, I'm bound to see all kinds of people enjoying the summer weather - park staffers, planting flowers or talking on their walkies, informing bosses that the parents in the playgrounds are asking for the sprinklers to be turned on; dog lovers and others seated on benches in the dog runs, chatting with each other with one eye tuned to their canine charges; sleepy-eyed squatters who currently call the park benches their home, skateboardering goths with their hair dyed shoe-polish black, their cheeks, lips and eyebrows sporting large pierced stainless steel adornments, and then the one I wasn't prepared for, although - should have been. A well-dressed man flipping through a magazine on a bench. Nice looking, casual, clean. Clearly on a break from work at a nearby boutique or some such.

And then there's me walking by, hair damp and curly, skin flushed from practice, a tiny bit of makeup to look awake for my noon class, wearing a pucci-print peasant blouse with a pair of khaki drawstring-front pants.

"Honey!" I hear.

I look around without trying to be obvious. You're not supposed to acknowledge catcallers, of course.

"Honey! You!" It's the well-dressed magazine-reading guy. I lift my eyes only a fraction, not wanting to encourage this behavior which is usually monopolized by construction workers and women in Diet Coke commercials.

"I just want to tell you that the print is fab, and I love the way you accentuate your beautiful eyes with the black liner!"

I'm beginning to think I might miss living in this fine city. Where else am I going to get advice from street-side queer-eye-style stylists?

YC