The arm went around my shoulder. Then the hand began to creep, farther and farther, down the neckline of my dress. I was 20, at a fancy dinner for my college newspaper. The hand belonged to a grown-up -- make that supposedly grown-up -- editor. An editor from whom I wanted a summer job.
I would like to tell you that I removed said hand and told its owner in no uncertain terms what he could do with it or, more to the point, couldn't. But I can't. My response, as I recall, involved some combination of resigned submission to this uninvited pawing and strategic wriggling out of reach.
Reader, I got the job. I went on to enjoy a cordial professional relationship with this man. Neither one of us mentioned the incident. Alcohol was involved, and I suppose I chalked his misbehavior up to that. Making a fuss seemed unwarranted and, even more, self-defeating.
The episode wasn't traumatic, not even close. Indeed, by the standards of the tens of thousands of tweets shared in recent days under the hashtag #notokay, it was mild.