Catcalling — or “car creepery,” as Tina Fey accurately described it. Yet, if you’re a female over the age of 13, you know it doesn’t just happen with cars nearby. It happens on the subway, walking your dogs, on your way into the grocery store, on a run. It happens everywhere, and when you least expect it.

The first time it happens, you’re a bit confused. You ask, “Was that meant for me?” as you look around, realization creeps in and a deep blush settles on your face.

Suddenly, braving the outdoor world is a feat all on its own. The hem of your dress is constantly tugged down while the neckline of your shirt is constantly tugged up. Shorts are constantly yanked down as you wait at the stoplight, and forget about pencil skirts. Faking a very important phone call becomes an acquired skill, and you have your blank straight-ahead stare mastered.

The inevitable whistle. A crude or sometimes even unsettlingly polite comment yelled at you from a black Toyota pickup as it speeds away from you. The animalistic cry from the cracked window of a Volkswagen. It is, to say the least, startling.

They beg you to smile, thank you for waking up that day, inform you that you have a/an [insert adjective here] [insert body part]. Sometimes you do not even get the decency of spoken language. Sometimes it’s just a revved engine. Other times, its a sort of primal scream, like something you would emit if you stubbed your toe on a coffee table or accidentally poured a bowl of cereal and realized there was no milk left.

Catcalling, wolf-whistling — whatever you want to call it. Some women abhor it and violently curse at the man who gave them a friendly reminder that they should smile more. Others love it, and coquettishly blush and turn away from the young man wearing the Red Sox fitted cap, the young man who yelled “DAYUMM GIRL.” If you are female, you will most likely experience it at one point in your life.

In my mind, it is the great equalizer of women. I am almost 100 percent positive you could gather women of all different sizes, races, occupations and ages, and ask them the simple question — “Have you ever been catcalled?” — and they would talk for hours on end about the one time this tool rolled down his window and yelled something crude and inaudible at them from his Mitsubishi.

I think the real question is: why is catcalling still a thing? It seems as if the perpetrators of this deed tend to believe that if they just remind an innocent woman out on a morning run that she has a “great rack,” things will go just as favorably as if they had told her J.K. Rowling read her senior thesis and adored it.

“Oh, I am just so glad you screamed those crude things at me from your car! Thank god you reminded me about my physical qualities that come with being a woman. In fact, I had begun to forget I have a normal female anatomy — thanks for reminding me I’m not a shapeless blob!”

I once asked a friend why some males feel the urge to do this strange act. He responded with something along the lines of “only tools do it alone. It’s just something fun to do with your friends. You get a reaction and it’s hilarious.”

For just one minute, I’d love to take this friend of mine, stuff him into a sports bra, shorts and t-shirt, force him to go for a run and follow him in my car while informing him how much I appreciate his [insert body part here].

Now, I know that only a small population of men do this “calling of cats.” Probably the same men who honk when you don’t move forward in a drive-through fast enough. The same men who chat you up in the Target check-out line when all you really wanted were these tampons and that jar of peanut butter. The same men who put their feet on the back of your seat at the movie theater. Those men.

So let’s all try to be those people — the people with decent human manners and behaviors. You never know, the girl you just catcalled may someday be the girl you try to hit on at the community pool because she’s actually very friendly and funny. Or, she may be the girl that furiously runs after your car while screaming profanities at you, making you deeply regret the comment you made about her undergarments.

Next time you call a cat, make sure it’s a little being with four legs and a sulky disposition that loves to run its claws down your mom’s favorite couch. Not some poor female who is forced to listen to your pitiful attempt at humor and/or manliness.

Please, and thank you.