Oops, My Bad

Melanie Smith

Oops, my bad.  I thought I was dealing with an adult. I think as I glare at the man across the counter.  His comment about my nose ring being originally made for cows really started my day off on the wrong foot.  But there was no way I was actually going to say anything because then I’d be a bitch.  However, I could think all the angry thoughts and no one would be the wiser.  


See, that’s the thing with being a woman.  Especially a young woman.  You aren’t supposed to be offended or hurt or have any feelings, really.  You are just an object worthy of judgment.  And if you don’t like being judged, well, that’s just too bad, nobody cares.


Your body.  Your clothes.  The way you talk, walk, eat, drink.  And what you talk about, what you drink, and definitely what you eat.


You can’t enjoy a Pumpkin Spice Latte, because then you’re basic.  You also can’t enjoy warm, fuzzy Ugg boots and leggings – basic.


You can’t wear a crop top if you’re feeling good about your body because then you’re a skank or slut.


Oh, you did your makeup today to make yourself feel a bit more confident about your skin or face?  Now, you’re fake.


You don’t feel like putting makeup on today and want to wear sweatshirt/sweatpants?  You’re lazy and obviously are just dressing like that to put guys off.  You must be on your period.


Oh, yes, our periods.  Even our automatic bodily functions get judged.  You’re emotional, overly-sensitive, maybe even hysterical.


We are too fat, too skinny, too loud, too forward, and just overall too much for the male-centered societal views on how women should be.










Drama Queen.








Asking for it.










“Like a girl”.




Little lady.


Men might be able to say, “It was just a joke!”  But to us women, it’s not.  It is part of sexual violence towards women and the “joke” is not a joke at all.  You’re objectifying women and we are not objects.  We are the people who made you.  Nurtured you.  And without us, you wouldn’t exist.  Yet you use these words and phrases to treat us like nothing more than trash.


I finish making his americano and set it on the counter, calling out his name. 


He comes back to the counter.  “Thanks.  Do you know when that hot blonde chick is working next?”


“I’m not allowed to share that information, sir.”  She doesn’t work at this time anymore since you kept harassing her for her number, even after she told you she had a boyfriend.


“Aw, come on.  I’m a loyal customer!  You can tell me,” he says, leaning an elbow on the counter and smiling at me.


“I said, no, sir.” I turned to make the next person’s drink, turning on the loud steamer to prevent further conversation.


It wasn’t loud enough to cover up the word he said as he took his drink and left.