I’ve been so long immersed in this female-dominated profession that I hardly notice when I’m being treated like just another one of the ladies. The only time I feel truly conscious of my gender (apart from the shorter lines at the bathroom) is when a dad — usually the non-stay-at-home counterpart to a mom friend of mine — cracks jokes conspiratorially about avoiding poopy diapers. (“Hee, hee, you know how we leave that to the womenfolk!”)
Today, again. A group of moms has gathered and we’re all chatting about various strategies of knife sharpening. A strong recommendation is made for a particular shop, where, we’re told, they were able to repair a badly broken cleaver.
“My husband whacked it into the butcher block so hard it broke the tip off. You know how guys are.”
Giggling all around, but not even a single apologetic look in my direction. Just as I like it.
It’s probably doing horrible things to my masculine psyche, but I’m immensely flattered when no one notices my Y chromosome.