I really never thought that this would be a problem, or at least one that would irritate me. As a girl, I was raised to believe that girls are TOTALLY AWESOME and can do as much, if not more than, boys. Back then I thought it was great that while us girls could wear both pajamas or nightgowns, boys could only wear pajamas. Ha.
I still think us girls are quite kickass and I certainly know there are many perks to belonging to the gender. I just don’t think I should have to give up my respect or the desire for others to take me seriously just to have a guy hold the door open for me.
So I’m a woman — that puts me with 50% of the population. Amazing. Why is it so odd if I want to shove on some boots and get in the mud? I can see the wheels turning. Why is she driving that truck? Why isn’t she a guy? Why does he have boobs?
I hinder myself as much as anybody, though. Steven says, as only a husband can, “your problem is you’re too nice.” Nice. Curl your upper lip up and squinch your nose when you say it and you’ll see why I need to dial down the nice. Nice asks for people to walk all over you.
But what am I to do when I’m driving down the road and some large truck begins pacing me in the next lane? I refrain from looking over for a while because, hey, no need to be rude. Maybe he just needs the office number off of my work truck.
When I finally sneak a peek — curiosity getting the better of me — I see the driver doing this cutsie open-and-closed hand wave at me.
Geez, what the hell am I supposed to make of that? I don’t KNOW this dude, and I certainly don’t WANT to know him. Is he being a smartass? Is he flirting? He wouldn’t freaking do this crap if I were a guy; I know that much.
When I finally turn left and he speeds ahead, he is still waving at me from his side mirror.
I just hate crap like that because now all I have is second-guesses and assumptions as to what this goofball was intending. I don’t want to get so jaded that I immediately pull out the Gender Card — it’s best if that card does not get worn and faded before its time — but what else can I think? It’s certainly not an isolated event. I can’t even count how many times I’ve been honked at by large trucks . . . but why honk at all?
Why can’t I drive down the road in peace? Why can’t I ask the rental sales guy about a piece of equipment without him getting unnecessarily technical just to see if he can talk over my head? Why am I “that little landscaping girl” at almost 30 years of age?
I have got to make myself heard over my petite stature.