Forein Affairs -Holly Brubach- O magazine

I love this article so much that I've made almost everyone I know read it... I'm posting it here so the rest of ya all can read its amazingness.... (You better all read it because I took a lot of time to type) (And yes I know all men are not like this, and there are points I could argue, but over all I like it):

Back in the days when I was a dancer, I used to position myself in class in front of the “thin” mirror, which, thanks to whatever imprecision in the manufacturing process, gave you back an image of yourself that was taller and slimmer. Not because I believed that this particular reflection was accurate (I know it wasn’t) or because I was trying to delude myself, but because when I watched this idealized version of myself, I felt more confidant and, frankly, danced better.
Living in Europe was like that. Men are mirrors, too. Once during rush hour on the metro in Paris, I noticed a man staring at me. When I got off at my stop, I suddenly realize that he was walking alongside me. I braced myself for the hassle that would come next, my mind racing ahead to various tactics for shaking him. He accompanied me in silence until we got to the street. “You have beautiful eyes,” he said finally. I thanked him politely. And then he was gone- no ulterior motive, no agenda.
More often than not, though, the compliments weren’t so explicit. Going about the business of my everyday life- first in France, then in Italy- I basked in the appreciation of the men who crossed my path. Something in the way my butcher said “Bonjour, Madame” when I entered his shop gave me to understand that he thought I was attractive. And not only me but the dozens of other women who were his customers as well- women of all ages, all shapes and sizes. None of us stopped traffic, but in each of us he discovered something worth celebrating: gorgeous hair, an exquisite nose, a slender waist, flawless skin. I came to think of these attentions as yet another form of the connoisseurship in which the French seem to specialize: Anyone can recognize a wine rated 98 out of 100, but it takes a real expert to identify and savor a vintage that’s an 80.
My butcher was joined in this felicitous pastime by the waiters at the local café, my banker, the florist, my doorman, and eventually, the overwhelming majority of the Italian male population, which depending on how far south you traveled proved considerably more playful and less subtle when it came to articulating their approval. And yet even without the deferential formality built into the French exchanges, these encounters never felt menacing or predatory.
On return trips to America, I missed this constant acknowledgement. I am neither tall nor blonde; I have a small bust; my nose is big; I’m on the far side of 40. American men, even (or should I say particularly?) the most oafish and unremarkable of them, seem to believe that Pamela Anderson is their due and that anything less- indeed, anything else- is a compromise. Back in New York, now my home I go for weeks at a time feeling completely invisible. The men who serve as my mirror through the day confirm that I am a client, a neighbor, a person, but rarely a woman.
The standard American explanation is that the French and the Italians are simply better trained in the rudiments of charm, that their cultures have created an arena in which flirtation and flattery are not only tolerated but encouraged. Whereas we, with our stringent Puritan heritage, our climate of political correctness, our rampant lawsuits on ground of sexual harassment, are simply more inhibited, unable to express our erotic admiration. That’s one way of looking at it.
Europeans for their part love to point out that American is a young nation- only 200-plus years old, still in its adolescence compared with their more mature civilizations. It’s a short step from the “land of opportunity” to the myth of endless possibility, an outlook more suited to a 16-year-old than to somebody midlife or later. That relentless optimism, the notion that true love/the jackpot/fame is just around the corner, makes for a premium on youth and perfection, before age and decay set in. Raised on the gospel of self-improvement, we raze the old to make way for the new. In a country where the strawberries look as if they’re on steroids; gigantic= and photogenic, without any taste, is it any wonder that eh market prefers airbrushed women with silicone breasts who exhibit none of the usual signs of experience? Women are mirrors, too, and men face-to-face with a babe in her 20s interpret her attention as welcome proof that their options are open.A friend who has just turned 50 called to say that she’s contemplating a facelift. She asked my advice. I told her to move to Italy.