I know he meant well.

A close friend and I were ensconced in the corner at Starbucks in the leather chairs right next to the pick up counter, as is our wont on a weekend morning. (At best, we view this once-weekly chat as therapy; at worst, we’re just hiding from our families.)

We were deep in conversation as the patrons milled about, and we were a little startled when a middle-aged man said, “Good morning, girls!” to us as he reached for his java.

As I may have mentioned before, I was a card-carrying member of N.O.W. in my teens, so I couldn’t resist. I looked over my shoulder at the wall and then turned back to our new friend. “Are you talking to us? Because we’re grown women.” I was smiling.

He told us a story about how, when he used to work in restaurants, he always called young women under the age of 18 ‘ladies’ and he called…and here he paused, obviously trying not to offend, women older than that got called ‘girls.’

From my reaction, he assumed I was a rabid liberal (which I’m not). I assured him that I’m not at all afraid to admit my age (I’m 50, and will turn 51 later this month). We wound up having a very pleasant chat.

But he left me wondering: what’s my deal with that? Why do I bristle when I hear anyone call a woman (technically a female over the age of 18) a girl?

The common, ‘women’s libber’ reason for The Bristle is the whole drill about how calling a fifty-year old woman a girl is a way of minimizing her, of making her less threatening. (The way my husband keeps buying me St. John’s Wort while perimenopause rages gives some credence to this…I could use a little de-threatening some days.)

But that’s not what bugs me about this so-called courtesy. I’ve been thinking about it ever since Starbucks and I think I figured it out:

I don’t like it when people assume that I need to be flattered like that. That my psyche is so fragile that, not only cannot I not be reminded that I AM fifty, I’m so brittle I must be actively lied to about it. And that I’m so dumb that I can be deluded into thinking that someone actually thinks I’m some young ingenue. And that I’m so starved for positive attention that the thought someone wanted to lie to me to try to make me feel better should make me feel better. And that the lie that I look like I’m 17 (should I be insane enough to entertain it for thirty seconds) is actually something that would actually make me feel better. When in all truth? The lie “Have you lost weight?” would do all the above and then some.

Here’s the facts: I will never pass for 17 again. Thank goodness. I hated my looks when I was 17. I’m kinda liking the looks of the woman I’ve aged into, and hope that I continue to like her looks as I get older. Don’t feel you have to call me ‘girl’ or anything like that to make me feel better.

Oh, and for the record: “N.O.W” stands for “National Organization for Women.” Just in case you’re too young to know that. Like, if you’re a girl.

© E.S. Evans 2010