One day my boss (a doctor) hired a man to mount a TV support on the wall of his office so he could hook up his ultrasound to the television in order to do injections on patients for the pain clinic I work in.
The older fellow came out at one point, asking “where the guys are”. I told him they were both in with patients and couldn’t be disturbed. He looked like he needed help, and so as I was not so busy at that moment, I offered my assistance.
He looked at me (literally, up and down) and said (with a slightly condescending smile):
“Oh, no. I need a man. I need to lift a heavy piece of metal to the wall to mount the TV on.”
I said: “Oh.”
He smiled at me, but then he read the expression on my face.
The expression on my face was a cross between subtle disgust and disdain, topped off with a raised eyebrow. I slowly crossed my arms and waited for a second. And then I said: “Let’s just see if I can lift it before disturbing the doctor.”
WHAT I REALLY WANTED TO SAY WAS THIS:
Oh, I beg your pardon. Does my vagina get in the way of lifting something that is roughly the same weight as a load of laundry and a toddler? Or four bags of groceries hanging off one arm while I close the trunk with my right foot (while in high heels)? Or the cord of firewood I loaded last weekend for my father in law? Or the furniture I move on a regular basis to clean? Or the fact that I can run 800 meters as a warm up and then go on to complete a WOD that includes push presses, burpees, lunges and pull-ups that would make you weep?
Right. That damn vagina of mine.
He LITERALLY backpedalled you guys… right into the office.
I marched in there (in my heels and skirt, y’all) and lifted that motherfucking mount up onto the wall and asked “Is here good?”
He agreed it was the perfect place and proceeded to place the mounting brackets while I patiently waited, bracing it up against the wall, while I admired my flexed biceps AND my pretty painted nails.
After it was all installed, he complimented my strength. And so I thanked him.