“DISCULPE Señora, what time is it?”
I turned to a kid who, based on the boldness with which he addressed me, must still be in elementary school.
“Ten past four,” I answered and thought about how, if he had dared to ask that question a year ago, I would have probably responded in military time to retaliate.
I am no longer bothered by the title though.
At 25, I am openly and unapologetically living my señora era to the fullest.
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“Disculpe, Señora, What Time Is It?”
The fear of being called a señora is justified when you visualize the traditional forecast: devastating loneliness if you become a señora by age or eternal sacrifice if you become one by marriage.
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Dream it.
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Build it.
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Grow it.
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Sell it.
Stanton Recipes Ed. 1
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