I am the only girl in my family. When I go home for breaks, I often find my father and brother digging their greasy hands into bags of potato chips while watching “The Man Show.”  They tease about how Mary Todd forced Abe to take her out to the theater the night he got shot and how Eve nagged Adam to eat forbidden fruit.  

But, making lemonade out of lemons, these sexist comments have made me pretty darn proud of being a woman — I can, and want, to prove that a glass ceiling is never going to get in my way.

Relationship-wise, I’m dating a wonderful guy. He’s understanding, not too into himself and even opens the door for me once in awhile.  We have thus far approached our relationship as equals, not inferiors.

This past Tuesday, however, I stopped dead in my tracks during a trek to the Spit for dinner.  A few days prior to the start of March Madness, we were discussing the various pools popping up all over campus for the event.  He had just entered one and I remarked that I might also.  “You can’t,” he replies.  “Girls just don’t understand that stuff.”

Like one of those Pepsi commercials where the Osmonds emerge out of zippered leisure-suits disguised as Jack and Kelly Osbourne, the Bobby Riggs and Billy Jean King “battle of the sexes” tennis match was recreated.  “What?” I screamed at him, loud enough for the passing cars on Ithan to hear.

Little does he know I’ve won an NCAA pool or two in my day.  I don’t claim to be a basketball guru, but gathering knowledge on it is not brain surgery.  Just search online for a few statistics and trust your gut. We decided to fill out our own brackets to prove if it’s true interest or just a few tricks that make a winner.

But instead of the usual prize, we settled on a much more humiliating loving cup.  Because he just “knows” he is going to win, he agreed to don a sign for the entire first school day following the tournament that says, “My girlfriend knows more about basketball than I do.”  Ladies, wait and see.  It’s time to go to the theater.