Shelly's Creeper

Here in the Midwest, we're famous for a few things: farms, Big Ten sports (Go IU...fight, fight, fight), good cooking (not to be confused with good-for-you cooking), and being nice. For proof of this list's legitimacy, see any piece of music, literature, or art ever created about our little section of the nation.

Case in point... "The Midwest's farmers' daughters really make you feel alright," croon the Beach Boys.

See...

We farm.

And, we're nice.

Sure, it seems more exciting to be a hot California girl, or an edgy New Yorker...or even a prim and proper Southern belle, but it's pretty neat being America's Sweethearts too, right?

I've always thought so.

In fact, I've felt a certain sense of pride at the way people view Midwestern women: honest, fun loving, take-home-to-mom gals who can catch a football, bake a casserole, and look hot in a pair of faded blue jeans. Who wouldn't want to be described this way? It's every man's fantasy woman.

A couple nights ago, some friends and I went out to a local club to celebrate being our sweet little selves. Midway through the evening, an older gentleman (and by this I mean old creeper) offered to buy my buddy Shelly a beer. Shelly, having both a serious boyfriend and a full beer in her hand, declined his offer.

Twenty minutes later, I turned around just in time to see Old Creeper McCreeperson fondling Shelly's booty with an open hand and a sick little smile on his face. Shelly, trapped in her spot on the dance floor could do nothing but look and feel horrified.

I can't fully explain what happened to me internally at the sight of this. It was a little bit like what I imagine The Hulk feels right before he starts greening and sprouting sedan-sized biceps. All I KNOW is...I was ready to be anything but nice.

I flew at Old McDonald...my finger in his face...shouting every expletive that came to mind. "Don't you f****** touch her, you f****** sicko!" I screamed. Seeing the shocked look on his face and the timidity with which he began backing away, I made the mature decision to keep right on talking. There really was no need. He'd gotten the picture. I was just SO angry.

I believe my last words to him were, "Walk away right now before I beat your ass."

Ah, yes. I was the picture of Midwestern hospitality.

The creeper left the bar as instructed (after a bystanding young lad jumped in between us and urged him toward the door) and our evening went on without another hitch. But even after we'd gotten home, I couldn't get the run-in out of my mind. I kept replaying the moment, wondering how I'd seemed to on-lookers, and hoping I hadn't ruined my God-given rep as a drama-free Indiana sweetie.

Now, maybe Old Fogie's disgusting actions warranted a good tongue-lashing. Maybe it was fitting for me to get a little hardcore in the defense of a friend. But I couldn't shake the feeling that my attitude that night had been about more than one handsy creepster.

When I replayed the emotions I felt that night, underneath a hefty layer of motherly instinct I found traces of spite...betrayal...and loneliness. I saw pictures of a hundred fights with all my ex-boyfriends, heard echos of insults hurled my way over the years, felt the sting of old tears running down my cheeks.

It became obvious, the more I thought about it, that my little rage black-out had been the culmination of all the things I never said while trying to be...nice.

It was about my best friend in 6th grade, who told me I was a bad dresser. I just thanked her for being honest.

It was about the time when, after a fight, my ex let me walk home...by myself...a few months after I'd gotten mugged in the same neighborhood. He never called to ask if I made it home okay. I just wrote it off as a bad night and never mentioned it.

It was about my old boss, who talked to me like he would a 2-year-old. I guess he thought secretaries weren't capable of adult conversation. I never corrected him.

Now, I'm not one of these girls who has no opinions on anything except hairspray and baby names. I've done a fair amount of reading and traveling...and dating...and I think I have something of substance to offer in all sorts of conversations. Still, I'm no stranger to that mangy feline who grabs our tongues just when we need them the most. Translation: I freeze-up in the face of real, uncomfortable, unavoidable confrontation...and I let the other person be right.

There are countless moments in all our lives that produce the need for confrontation...for the expression of anger and hurt. Most of us avoid this like a bikini wax...you know you need it, but it's so damn awkward and painful that you put it off anyway.

This is especially true for us Midwests' farmers' daughters. We've been brought up in a stereotype so thick with niceties, we can't find our way out of it. It's not that we don't feel anger, we just keep it in. Maybe this makes us seem sweet to The Beach Boys, but I wonder if it makes us bitter inside...so that on some random day, for some ridiculous reason, we explode.

Luckily for me, I exploded all over someone who deserved it. But what about next time? The only way I can see to prevent this from happening again (to someone who didn't have it coming) is to get good and mad when it's time to get mad...and then to express it and deal with it. It's something all us ladies of the Heartland had better consider. Otherwise, all the boys will be wishing we all could be California girls.