I was walking to the parking garage after work, with two female colleagues. We were engaged in a conversation. A woman yells at us, “Hey, ladies, spare some change?” One colleague said “No, sorry” and we kept walking.
She yelled after us “I guess you’re not fuckin’ ladies, then, are ya?”
Nor are you, my dear, nor are you.
I don’t really identify with the term “lady”. I feel like I would be required to cut the crusts off sandwiches for the bridge club, keep my bajingo springtime fresh, and wear gloves in public. Or maybe I should have a tall pointy hat with a diaphanous veil.
A woman, I am. Female adult human. Yup, that’s me. I’m a broad, a chick (but only to fellow chicks) and sometimes a dame, if I’m wearing a short skirt and smoking a cigar. Not a girl, I’m too old. Nor am I a “gal”, because well, it’s just kind of weird and archaic.
What defines a “lady”, anyway? I’m not terribly ladylike. I have a job. I cross my legs at the knee. I don’t have a husband. I swear. I wear hiking boots. I drink beer, from the bottle, in mixed company. I don’t require the protection of a knight. I am neither fainthearted nor delicate. I am not the spouse of a Lord. I know what I like in the sack, and it’s not “wham, bam, thank you lady”.
I try to be polite, and considerate. I do like going out for lunch. I occasionally wear a dress, because I like dresses. So, I guess I’m kind of a lady? Nah, who am I kidding. I think it’s an outdated expression, and I don’t really want to be one. I would never be so rude as to call someone out for referring to me as one, but it’s not for me.
So I guess I’m not a fuckin’ lady, am I?