The now infamous “Grab her by the p***y” tape triggered a long forgotten memory in me.

I was 21, fresh out of Yale. I had returned to the Rio Grande Valley in South Texas. As an English major, I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life. Home seemed like a safe way station.

I got a job as a “paralegal” in an established law firm run by a father and his sons. At the Christmas party, the patriarch, now retired but still ruling with a firm hand, drew me into his ostentatious office. Before I knew it, the door was closed and his withered aged face was slobbering on mine. I exited quickly, but did not make a fuss.

I was furious. But not at him. I was furious with my female colleagues who had not warned me to avoid him. When I asked one of the women I trusted why she had not said anything, she implied that it was a rite of passage that every woman in the office had to endure. They felt that it was in my best interest to experience what each one of them had.

It never once occurred to me to report the incident. I knew it was a battle I would not win, and I did not want to be fired from my first job after college.

Soon thereafter I quit and moved to Boston. I donned 20 pounds and fatigues as my daily wear.

I never made the connection between that incident and the anti-beauty campaign that I embarked on in the Boston years. I never wore makeup, I was faithful to the fatigues and the sensible shoes, and added men’s ties and vests if the occasion warranted.

Somewhere in my female-trained mind, I associated beauty with danger. Beauty invited unwanted advances, unwanted pregnancies, even rape. When I arrived at Yale in 1975, a freshwoman was raped twice by the same man. We were forced to take a self-defense class  in which we learned to yell NO and kick a man in the crotch. Although I was extremely grateful for the class, I regretted having to give up three hours a week which I sorely needed for my studies.

In those Boston years, I wanted nothing to do with beauty. Makeup and clothes cost money which I did not have. The ritual of daily beauty devoured time that I’d rather use in advancement of my career.

Early on in life I bought into the false dichotomy: you were either on Team Beauty or Team Smart.

Donald Trump and Billy Bush, in a moment of unguarded Sexual Assault Banter, reminded me why.