I am having one of those weeks, people. I think maybe I am wearing an invisible shirt that says I ARE TWELVE or something.
Yesterday during kickboxing we had a guest instructor. I love love LOVE our normal teacher. She’s even fun to just stare at, because when she gets down on the floor with us you can see every single muscle on her leg in perfect sharp definition. If Michelangelo saw her, he would probably fall down weeping and realize that he didn’t have to sculpt and paint mans with boobs, because the ladies can bring the muscles too.
Figure 1: Mans with Bewbs. Tsk.
ANYWAY, this guest instructor immediately endeared himself to us by addressing us as “girls.” Nevermind the fact that there were no actual girls in evidence and our class also includes a middle-aged man. I’ve seen Our Man doing push ups. No one should call him “girl” either. Our instructor jumped in and corrected him with a quick “WOMEN.”
He apologized, and class went on fairly non-heinously (except for the fact that he seemed overly fond of playing John Cougar Mellencamp (or is it still just John Cougar? Cougarcamp? Mellenport?) repeatedly and louder than was really necessary).
An aside: doing bagwork while listening to John Puma Mellentaco’s “Hurts So Good” made me feel like I was in a bad movie about a scrappy lady boxer from a small town who will train furiously in between her shifts at the DQ, battling her crappy car that lets her down at plot-devicey moments, and arguing with her baby daddy. Eventually she will rise to the top and will win regionals, which will earn her enough money to [SPOILER ALERT!!!] become separated from her conjoined twin. SURPISE PLOT TWIST! And you wondered why she was never fully on screen, didn’t you???
Supa and I saw him again this morning, and he said “Good morning, Girls. Oops, I mean, Ladies.”
He apologetically said something about it being a bad habit.
“I’ve had two kids, so I think anyone can call me a girl anymore,” I said, in an unhostile way, and laughed. He did a double-take on me after that…maybe it was the pink pigtails today.
I did get a little hostile about it at BlogHer this summer. I was walking across a parking lot with Squid when we ran into a family festooned in NASCAR gear who were presumably in San Jose for some racing thing I vaguely heard about while I was there. The father, in front of his son (who looked about ten) began asking us what the conference was for. Squid offered that it was a conference for women who write on the Internet.
“Well,” he said. “I thought there were a lot of girls here.”
“There’s a lot of women here, too,” I snapped.
“And men,” Squid added, matter-of-factly.
The man’s wife pulled a slightly pained face. I can’t say exactly what this woman was thinking, but I have seen that face before: it is that apologetic face that I have seen women make before they defend a sexist comment.
Today after class Supa and I popped into the coffee shop across the street and were immediately greeted by a barista who was our age. “Hi, Girls!” she called to us. I had to resist the urge to look behind myself like a smartass.
Semantics are important to me. And I’m not saying you have to spawn to be a woman either. In fact, there are many bespawned girls in this world (looking at you, Britney). Marriage at eighteen certainly did not make me feel like a woman, and motherhood didn’t give me the insta-badge either. For me, I think it was around the time that I was finishing my bachelor’s degree, wrangling a toddler, and not melting down into a puddle every time my extremely-disappointing husband shit the bed on something. Again. Basically it was when my life took on a rhythm of its own and I was really discovering that I had strong opinions of my own and a certain degree of capability.
And what’s funny is that I’ve had a couple of friends in my life who have used “girl” with me familiarly and endearingly, and it doesn’t bother me (“How you doin’, girl?”). It’s all context.
It reminded me of this article by Sarah Bunting: Yes, You Are. I went back and reread it today, because sometimes I get in knots about the semantics thing. I say, “Oh, they don’t really mean it like that,” or, “What’s the big deal, anyway?”
It is a deal, though. I am not a girl. I am not cute, little, innocent, or pre-pubescent. Call me what I really am. I’ve earned it.
