As I am walking from my car to The Apartment last night, shopping bags in hand, I hear from across the main quad in the complex, “How you doin’?” Think Joey Tribbiani, but not as endearing. There are, in the quad at the time, several people– kids around the pool, a few people on the patio outside the gym, people sitting on their balconies, etc. I don’t turn around, because I know that no one I know is around.
He shouts again, “Hey, Red, how you doin’?” My hair isn’t red anymore, but I am wearing a red shirt, one that I received multiple compliments on while shopping (sidenote: how nice is it to get that random compliment when you’re in the middle of a body-shame sprial?). I turn around to see who feels it appropriate to shout at me across the quad like a construction worker while I am just minding my own business– of course, it is one of probably about five guys that live in a single apartment facing the quad. Sighing and rolling my eyes, I instinctively raise my middle finger and book it to my apartment.
Because I ain’t no Hollaback Girl.
(Someday I will tell y’all the tale of how my mother divulged her knowledge of this phrase’s meaning. It is hilarious.)