Hollaback girl

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.)