The Weaker Sex?

Rosie the Riveter

My son and I are eating lunch at Subway when a group of teenage girls comes in. I notice that in the process of pushing one another through the door, one of the girls has dropped a hat on the sidewalk.

“Hey, girls,” I say. “One of you dropped a hat outside.”

“Oh, that’s mine,” one of the girls says. “Thanks.” And she goes out to pick it up.

“You see the way I saved those damsels in distress?” I say to the boy, who’s about the same age as the girls. “Try to learn something from that.”

“Why?” he says.

“Because you’ve got to take care of girls. They’re the weaker sex.”

“Mom would kill you if she heard that.”

He’s right about that. His mom is extremely volatile and always on high alert for slights, real or perceived.

“I’m gonna tell her,” he says, nodding and taking a bite of his sandwich. “Then we’ll see who’s weaker . . .”

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