While I'm not old by any sane standards, by society's I am on the wane. So when I walk down the street or ride the bus I notice fewer eyes watching me. My body, fattened up from stints at grad school and a bout of law-school induced depression, has gained some anonymity and feels a little more mine in public. The little wrinkles around my eyes, though they are still shallow, I treat tenderly every morning with a dab of cream and smile at myself in the mirror, enjoying the way they frame my eyes as they scrunch.

The memories of his eyes on me, however, linger. He the man on the train, the bus, on the street.

He gave me his attention and I was supposed to feel flattered. His eyes on my hair, my breasts, my hands, my shoulders, my thighs. My hair. My tits. My shoulders and thighs and rainboots. In his eyes they felt vulnerable and scared; they did not enjoy his attention. They did not ask for nor consent to his attention.

Being a woman gazed at should not be so hard or scary, and yet, here we are.

My female friends all have stories of times they’ve been afraid just to be in public or private. The pretty ones, the plain ones, the fat and skinny ones, every woman can tell you her stories, if you’d ask.

There is a lot of anger in this female body, rage at how the rest of the world makes me feel when I’m out in it. A few weeks ago I convinced some friends to begin attending a cardio kickboxing class with me. We punch the air in unison in a room almost entirely filled with women. I jab left and my hand sails straight through emptiness, makes contact with nothing, and snaps back to my side. But I feel like I’m gaining strength for a time when it might meet an actual threat.