Was ya ever punched in the face 500 times a night? It stings after a while, ya know.
I own mirrors, alright? I get it.
Visiting Schenectady yesterday on a sultry June afternoon, I wore a cute summer dress: lightweight, colorful, a little daring at the neckline. Perfect for my niece's high school graduation later. I stopped at a used bookstore before going to the party.
The sidewalk was narrow. A man walking in the other direction stepped off into the grass, I thought chivalrously. I smiled and said, "Thanks." He looked at me as if I'd asked him to help rob a liquor store. "Ain't none of my business, sir."
Sir? Motherfucker.
At the party, I watched as a 5-year-old struggled to add fruit punch flavoring to his bottled water.
He: I can't do it.
I: Do you want some help?
He nods.
I bend down, add the powder to the water, shake it up.
I: Here you go.
He: Why are you wearing a dress?
Don't react; turn it into a teachable moment.
I: I'm a woman. I just have a really deep voice. Sometimes people make fun of me for being different. Does that ever happen to you?
He: No.
If six words from a 5-year-old sting, you need a thicker skin. And yet, when we took the family photo, all I could see was what they both saw: a guy in a dress. The boobs didn't matter. The hair didn't matter. My attempts at kind/friendly didn't matter.
500 times a night. Starts to sting after a while.
Comments
Post a Comment