It starts off typically enough, with scene-setting descriptions of the star-crossed strangers.
I know how it is. That quittin' time whistle blows, announcing the weekend, and you get that rush of adrenaline that only comes on Friday afternoons, when the whole world is your oyster and all you need is the freedom to shuck it and some beer to wash it down. You make the minimum requisite small talk with your colleagues as you bolt for your car in the corporate wasteland parking lot and get excited at the notion of beating the traffic home. Maybe your classic rock radio station starts to play your favorite Creed song right as your engine turns on and you're feeling extra lucky. And that's where you find your psyche as you approach the intersection to turn onto 34th - you're a man with nothing to lose and an open road ahead of you.
So, that's where we were. Me, minding my own business. You, apparently observing my ass. At that point you had options. You could have driven past me and said nothing. You could have turned up your radio and waved, ensconcing us in some beats and camaraderie. You could have shouted out, "Happy Friday! Yeehaw!" Any of those options would have been great. I probably would have waved, smiled, and started my weekend on the same high note as you.
Instead, you chose the most pathetic option available to you: You leaned out of your window and made some ridiculous series of leering comments about whether I was wearing a thong, right as the light changed and you peeled off, pleased with yourself and saved from any consequences.
You can probably see where this is going, but just in case it wasn't immediately clear, the post's author isn't exactly looking to hook back up with the one who sped away.
Still, she manages to turn the troubling incident into a teachable moment and helpfully provides a breakdown of the what not to do when looking for your One True Love at a stoplight.
Which, summed up, is basically everything her 'missed connection' did, but the opposite:
If you'd stuck around, I would have happily shouted a few things of my own at you: that it's people like you that make women avoid walking alone or taking transit even in broad daylight in their own cities; that no matter what screwed up metric you use it's not a "compliment" to have someone interrogate me about my underwear; that thanks to you I would spend the entire train ride home feeling scrutinized and gross because you didn't have the willpower or maturity to keep your mouth shut; that your wife and daughters or at the very least your mother deserve better than a cowardly man who shouts at women from the safety of his car.
Let me make this abundantly clear, to you and to the other men reading this: when you comment on a woman's appearance, you are not doing it for her. You are doing it for you. It's not some great way to make a woman feel sexy and appreciated. It's not flattery, even if you mean for it to be. The only thing it is is a great way for you to create a shitty power dynamic, by which you have announced yourself as the arbiter of her value, and you've deemed her fuckable, and she is supposed to be happy or impressed by that.
If you really find a woman beautiful, don't choose the juvenile selfish route that makes her feel weird and you look like an asshole. Just take a deep breath, commit the image to memory, and get on with your life. Or, if it's really that great of an ass that you can't possibly survive without commenting on it, post about it on CL missed connections after the fact and let her decide what to do about it.