On Becoming a Lady.

It was on a sunny, warm Black Friday that reality struck me like an 18 wheeler. In a more literal sense, I was struck by an 18 wheeler, but that’s not what this post is about. I suppose I’ll have to explain that part though, to get to the part I want to talk about. So. It was on a sunny, warm Black Friday that I was sitting at a red light. I glanced in my rearview mirror (I obsessively do this to see that I’m not going to be rear ended, does anyone else?!?) and all I could see was grill. Big, shiny chrome grill approaching my car way too quickly. Before I could spout off a line of cuss words (thank goodness) we were hit and bounced into the median. To make a way too long story short, everyone was fine but when EMS came to check Brooks, they laid their eyes on my cousin Jill and I and decided they wanted nothing more than to get us in the back of their ambulance and strap us down. To backboards. It was when they mentioned that it was possible for me to feel completely fine now, but have something pop an hour later and be paralyzed for life that I obediently hopped into their rig and let them tape my head a million ways to a hard board. While sassily throwing up rockstar hands to my husband’s waiting camera phone.

We were transported to the hospital, Brooks in a special seat eating up the fact that he was INSIDE an ambulance (he called it a fire truck). Upon our arrival, the Dr. promptly unstrapped me from my braces and asked how I felt. “Like I’ve been hit by an 18 wheeler.” I replied. He assured me that I was most likely fine (duh.), but ordered x-rays “just in case”. It was while the tech was taking my x-rays that I was forced to face an awful reality. As I stood there, back to the wall, holding my breath in a far too thin hospital gown, that I over heard him refer to me as  “that lady in there”. The air literally rushed out of my lungs.   LADY?!? What the WHAT?!? When did that happen?!? Maybe it’s just me, but when referring to a female of a young, youthful and vibrant age, you say “girl”. “Lady” is for someone who smells like cheese and accidentally farts when she moves too quickly. That is not me. I am young and very in tune with what the kids like these days. I want people to say, “See that girl over there? She looks like she knows what’s what.” Not, “See that lady over there? She walked by me and totally farted and I don’t think she even knew it!”

I’m wondering if this makes sense to anyone else. Maybe it’s all in my head and it’s perfectly normal to refer to someone like me as a “lady” or “girl” interchangeably and it’s not a huge deal either way. Or, maybe I should embrace my ladyness. Perhaps, I shall channel another “lady” I admire and use it as a permanent prefix to my name.

Perhaps I shall dress like her as well. People would be so distracted, they wouldn’t even notice my farting.

***James says I should  note that the above picture is Lady Gaga. He says people won’t recognize her without blood all over her face.



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2 responses to “On Becoming a Lady.

  1. Ashlee Mosley

    You are friggin hilarious! And a gifted writer. And I’m so glad you are all okay. Found out that day and could’be belive it! Keep em coming sister!

  2. Tiff

    She looks very kermit the frog here. i would still notice her farting though 🙂

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