I glance over my shoulder to see the muscley man behind me. Only to find no one there. Horrified, I realized he was talking to me. Since I’ve signed up for the Ironman, I’m been called a stud. Three times. And my personal favorite: Beast. Said in a low, guttural voice. You know the one where your nose scrunches up and your fingertips curl into a claw as you say the word. All comments came from what I can only assume to be well-intentioned men.
Terms like these do untold damage to the female psyche. It makes me want to immediately petition Webster to add a feminine equivalent to his good book. Otherwise, I may be forced to start racing in my pearls to maintain my feminine charms.
It’s funny how those terms irk me but when someone tries to be PC and call me an Ironwoman, I am quick to correct them. I guess we women really are hard to understand.
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