A Storm Is Brewing

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Oh hey guys, fancy seeing you here, you are all looking very healthy, oh stop it me, I’m too kind. Now in light of my last post this one may look suspicious but as I do love to tell a tale I am once again here to weave you a new basket of feminist fables which you can float down the river of enlightenment much like Moses did all those years ago (catering to all cultures, just another service I provide). This particular story I wasn’t even looking for, it just fell into my lap and demanded my rage! And so without hesitation I am here to let you know about it, aren’t you exited?

So being the waitress I am found me one Friday evening glibly assisting a bunch of the upper middle class to drinks and food as they gather for an evening of celebration. From what I gathered from a lot of speeches, toasts, and a 15 minute slide show they were lauding their daughters, a bunch of which were gathered giggling on their own separate table, for their achievements on the sports field that year as they had won the national championships. Well done them, nothing wrong with that me thinks. The evening also seemed to be a farewell to their coach, who they called Storm, as a thank you for all she’d done for the team.

Now this would have all meant nothing to me apart from the fact I recognised this woman from another waitressing event months ago, as anyone in service will tell you if you remember one face in the sea of hungry custom it’s a pretty rare thing that shouldn’t be taken too lightly! At the time this lady had struck me as a really cool person. Dark haired, very tall and more importantly possessing that ‘Gatsby’ charisma that only a few posses. I remember my music teacher when I was little had a similar quality, she would strike me with my book, she would sit on my tummy to ‘help my diaphragm’ and would never let me quit. She taught me four instruments, tallied my grades up to over 15 and terrified me all the years I knew her, needless to say she was my idol. This lady seemed to be of the same ilk, and so I resolved to like her more and more as her tales of tyranny over her team increased.

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And so it came to the parents speeches, and one man, in the midst of all the talk of what a strong dedicated individual this woman is, decided to stand, microphone in hand and say ‘I’m sure there’s someone out there for you’….

OHMYGODWHATISWRONGWITHTHEWORLDWELIVEINSITDOWNANDSHUTUP!!!

Ok, what?! Like… WHAT?! This lady was obviously a class act, she coached a team to win their national championships, she inspired actual teenagers, she was witty (enjoyed her speech most of all of them even if it was like 20 minutes long), had a ridiculous figure and was basically pretty kick-ass all round. Yet instead of lauding her, this married man decided to belittle her achievements and patronise her simply because she hadn’t found the time between coaching his daughter to victory to find herself a male to forever manacle herself to. Was he so threatened by her success he had to pretend that this was a valid fault to stab her in the back with?

Let me ask you this; if Storm was a thirty-something man, would it ever even cross his mind to mention his family life at a party to celebrate his career? I’m thinking the answer would be a large, smug, sexist ‘No’.

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Of course, bound by the laws of hospitality (and my contract) I was not allowed to smash a water jug over this mans head on behalf of justice, so I’m voicing the slight on the only platform anyone can, the one I made myself. So Storm if you’re about, let it be known that most of us couldn’t give two hoots what your relationship status is, my wonderful music teacher was on her first divorce, did she care? No, she was too busy being awesome and inspiring a small four year old, while also crushing the air out of her puny lungs. Being single is not a negative on the list of life achievements people, in the same way that me being able to play ‘Oranges And Lemons’ on now seven different instruments doesn’t make me Mozart. So to whoever you are Mr Misogynist build a bridge, and get over yourself.

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