Imagine standing in a garden center, desperate to reach a pot perched high on the top shelf at Home Depot. Just six inches beyond my grasp, I tried stretching and jumping in vain. Next to me sat a stair ladder on wheels, its chain barrier designed to deter eager customers like myself from climbing it and risking injury.

It would have been simple to duck under that chain; I could see it was secure. The ladder was conveniently placed right beside the pots I needed. Just a quick breach of one minor rule, and I could retrieve that pot in mere seconds.

Yet, I hesitated. I had been conditioned to behave. Instead, I trekked to customer service, situated halfway across the store. The young employee greeted me with annoyance, her impatience palpable as I explained my situation.

"Due to the pandemic, we’ve lost many employees. Only four are working the floor," she replied curtly.

I suggested climbing the ladder myself. "Absolutely not," she snapped. "That’s against store policy."

Doubt crept in. Was she subtly suggesting I leave? With a dramatic sigh, she promised to send someone to help. I returned to the garden center, doubting whether assistance would arrive. Minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity. I could have easily climbed that ladder and grabbed the pot, instead of wasting time waiting.

I couldn’t shake the thought that a man wouldn’t have hesitated; he would have simply climbed the ladder.

As I stood there, anxiously glancing toward the entrance, I half-expected a male employee to arrive just as I decided to take matters into my own hands. But no one came. So, I ducked under the chain, swiftly climbed the steps, grabbed the pot, and scrambled back down, my heart racing with unexpected exhilaration.

On my way to the checkout, I spotted a man effortlessly scaling a shelf twice as high as the one I had just conquered. He seemed oblivious to the risks, while a male employee walked by without a glance. A wave of jealousy washed over me. Men navigate their environment with such ease, taking up space without hesitation, while I had spent twenty minutes strategizing how to secure a mere pot.

Men might dismiss this as an insignificant grievance, but for those socialized as women, it resonates deeply. We have been trained to minimize our presence. Whether it’s standing with our hands behind our backs or sitting with our legs crossed, we learn to take up as little space as possible.

Alison Powell, a columnist, highlights this in a university seminar where she noted that every man sat sprawled out, while the women attempted to shrink into themselves. She posed a piercing question: Are we taught modesty, or is it a deeper belief that we should make ourselves smaller, as if apologizing for our very existence?

That question stings. Yes, it feels true. How often have I found myself apologizing? When nearly bumped by a man in the grocery store, I was the one to say, “I’m sorry.” When a man stood too close behind me at the post office, I apologized. Even in a shared office, if a male colleague entered the break room while I was using the copier, I would utter an apology.

Yes, I’m sorry for being here.

But why? I’ve been conditioned to feel that way.

I suspect many men are unaware of this dynamic. They navigate life with wide personal space and an expectation that the world accommodates them. They see it as a man’s world.

I often wonder how this affects women throughout their lives. What occurs when we internalize the belief that our very presence is an inconvenience?

Recently, while walking along a scenic trail in my town, I approached a busy street with a marked crosswalk. Drivers often disregard pedestrians, and I hesitated as a sports car sped toward me. At the last moment, he slammed the brakes.

Typically, I would wave to acknowledge the driver, but that day, holding a water bottle and my phone, I felt less than friendly. His reckless driving made me uneasy.

Just as I stepped onto the crosswalk, he shouted, “You owe me a thank you! Yeah, you’re welcome, lady!”

I stood there, stunned, struggling to respond while blocking traffic. Rage bubbled within me. I owed him gratitude for complying with the law? He felt entitled to recognition for obeying a basic rule, yelling at a stranger in the process?

I refuse to believe he would have done the same if I were a man.

When I share experiences like this, men often brush them off as isolated incidents. But they’re not.

A couple of weeks ago at a tire shop, a man cut in front of me when the attendant called, "Next!" I exchanged glances with the female associate, realizing she wouldn’t speak up for fear of his reaction.

Last month, while pushing my cart through a grocery store parking lot, a man yelled at me for moving too slowly as he tried to exit his space.

There’s an unspoken understanding: women are obstacles in men’s paths.

I hate to admit it, but the man’s outburst affected me deeply. It took days to shake off that anger.

I don’t want to endure such behavior, yet it’s a constant reality.

Like many women, I oscillate between wanting to be seen and wishing to be invisible. I aspire to exist without apology but find myself entrenched in a reality that compels me to apologize.

The desire to be seen is aspirational; the urge to remain unnoticed is the stark reality.

The solution lies in women claiming more space: occupying positions of power, assuming confident postures, and unapologetically asserting our presence—whether it’s at a copy machine or elsewhere.

Yet, each act of claiming space can provoke anger and resentment. It often feels safer to remain small, to cross our legs, and to keep our heads down.

Even in 2023, men expect apologies when yielding to pedestrians at crosswalks. On days like that, the weight of the space I occupy—or refrain from occupying—can be overwhelming.

Perhaps the answer is to take baby steps. We must keep crossing streets, assured that we owe no one gratitude or apologies for doing so. We should dare to sit with our legs apart on public transport.

And if there’s a stair ladder at Home Depot that can save us from waiting twenty minutes for assistance, let’s climb it and retrieve what we need.

© Y.L. Wolfe 2023

Y.L. Wolfe is a gender-curious, solosexual, perimenopausal, childless crone-in-training, exploring these experiences through writing, photography, and art. You can find more of her work at yaelwolfe.com. If you enjoy her writing, consider leaving a tip on Ko-fi.

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