"Don’t call first, don’t text first, don’t breathe first, don’t exist first" — the golden rules of girlhood.

I remember someone once told me, “Don’t eat a burger in front of him — it’s not ladylike.”
So I ordered a salad. A small one. No dressing. With water.
Guess what? He left.
For the girl who ate a double cheeseburger and licked her fingers like it was her last meal on Earth.

Another time, I was told to wear heels even just to buy bread.
I tripped on a curb, tore my tights, and cried silently in a crowded minibus.
A man sat next to me and quietly handed me a tissue. He was in sneakers.
I trusted him more than all that glossy advice combined.

Now I’ve grown. I eat what I want.
I text when I feel like it.
And if I call first — it’s only to order pizza. Or wine. Or both.

Turns out, being “ladylike” is overrated.
Being real, though — that’s where the magic is.
I don’t follow the rules anymore. I write my own.
With greasy fingers and barefoot confidence.