Girls, girls, girls!

My eighty-seven-year old grandmother still has lunch every fortnight with ‘the girls’: the ladies she spent her school days with, more than seven decades ago. Somehow, while in the eyes of the rest of the world these girls grew into ladies and even old women; to my grandmother they are simply childhood friends.

Such clarity escapes me. Even at twenty-five I find it hard to classify the women in my life. Sure, close friends are ‘girlfriends’, but what about the females I work with? The ones over twenty-five: are they ladies? Women? Both those descriptions seem to age them prematurely, and yet, calling them girls certainly belittles their accomplishments. After all, these ‘chicks’ are professionals. Some married. Some mothers.

Or am I just being pedantic? Surely I wouldn’t mind someone referring to me as, “the new girl at work”. Why am I so troubled about misidentifying others? But sitting on a lower rung of the hierarchical office ladder I’m definitely uneasy.

Ironically, when my grandmother was a young woman, while girlfriends were ‘girlfriends’, in polite conversation one would refer to all other women as Ms. X and Ms. Y. Formality was key.

How lucky we are to no longer be forced to conform – employers and employees known to others on a first name basis – how wonderful and equal! Yep, within the confines of work first names are fine…

Just don’t try talking about that girl/woman/lady, Sue, who works in the office next to yours, who has a toddler and a mortgage and who is giving you a lift to work on Wednesday!