It's like Sex and the Suburbs and 30 Rock all rolled into one…
Don’t call me your bro. I may be your friend, and I may have no sexual chemistry with you, but I am not a boy. Point of fact: I am a woman. At almost thirty, you can’t be called a girl or a young lady any more. But I am a female of a certain age, not a male of one. I understand that I enjoy the same things as most guys – I love football, in fact sports in general, a good cigar and night out talking about manly things while tossing back a beer or two. Yes, I might be most comfortable in a t-shirt, jeans and a baseball cap, but I also like to wear pretty dresses and nice things.
My father didn’t have sons. He was okay with my sister and I being healthy, but ultimately being female. I think he liked being Dad, the guy who imposed boyfriends and lectured us on how to behave politely. But he also never really treated us like girlie girls either. We watched football on Sundays. He taught us how to throw a baseball and a football. When we got to the right age, he taught us how to pick a good cigar, a good beer or wine, and how to act professional. He encouraged us to act intelligent, and pushed books that typically get marketed to men our way – histories, meaty political books and things on football. My Dad turned me onto The Blind Side before it ever got movie rights. He’s the one who suggested I’d like reading American Lion. We went to the mall with his protests; it’s the one thing we disagree on. Men typically buy cars, but my sister and I can wheel and deal with the best of them. And we can tell what’s wrong with our cars. And we can do minor household repairs.We open doors for ladies.
But despite all of this, I’m not a boy. I don’t want to be one of them either. Yes, I am part of my office’s pick em league. Yes, I spend my breaks chatting about sleeper picks for fantasy football. And yes, I look dashing in clothing inspired by menswear. Don’t make me drop my panties to prove it. Just treat me like a girl.