In celebration of International Women’s Week, and with kudos to my best friend, who reminded me this weekend of the glory of the word “douchebag.”
Kudos to you. Yes, you.
You, who worries every single moment of every single day, because it must help, somehow.
You, whose nipples bled liberally while you cooed and soothed and cried.
You, who wrestles into pantyhose and heels, who carefully covers your eyes and cheeks with color every morning because we’re just not there yet.
You, who hasn’t had a “weekend” in five years, because that’s just a different kind of busy.
You, who stands in front of a crowd to deliver a 45-minute presentation even while you feel the blood dripping down, down from your body with enough force to make you dizzy.
You, who smoothly solves “Mommy, will you,” “lady, over here,” “will you please ensure,” “would you mind helping with” and “yes baby, right there” all in the course of a day.
You, who could say “how was work, honey” in six languages, but don’t.
You, who has almost no time between meetings to go to the bathroom.
You, who can never go to the bathroom without an audience.
You, who tries to retain your hard-won, tenuous positive body image in a society where that’s just so fucking hard.
You who listens.
You who holds back.
You who rocks the boardroom but earns 35% less than the douchebag across the table. Still.
You, woman. You keep us up, you keep us down, you keep us going.
Here’s to you.
Originally published on The Torrid Forties
Photo credit: Terry Dodson via Wikimedia Commons