Correspondence No. 17 On Being Difficult

Correspondence No. 17

On Being Difficult

Filed by the Official Creamery Correspondence Department.

There is a rumor that Creamery Girls are terribly difficult.

That they ask too many questions.
That they don’t smile when they’re expected to.
That they ruin perfectly pleasant situations by telling the truth.

The rumor is mostly correct.

We’ve noticed that the world is remarkably comfortable with women who shrink themselves into polite little paper dolls.

Be agreeable.
Be grateful.
Be quiet.
Don’t make anyone uncomfortable.

Especially not yourself.

The strange thing is that the moment a woman decides she would rather disappoint someone else than betray herself…

she acquires a new title.

“Difficult.”

“Too much.”

“A bitch.”

It is fascinating paperwork.

 

The Correspondence Department has spent years reviewing these reports and has found one common thread:

The accusation rarely arrives because a woman was cruel.

It usually arrives because she stopped volunteering herself as the easiest person in the room.

There is a difference.

Cruelty leaves bruises.

Boundaries simply leave people with fewer places to stand.

The Creamery has never been interested in teaching women how to become smaller.

Quite the opposite.

We recommend learning to say no with your whole chest.

We recommend walking away from tables where your appetite for life is considered impolite.

We recommend cowboy boots with lace dresses.

We recommend making beautiful things without asking permission.

We recommend becoming the sort of woman who can hold tenderness in one hand and conviction in the other.

The prairie has never confused softness with weakness.

Neither should you.

So if someone files another report claiming you’ve become “difficult,” don’t panic.

We’ll stamp it.

We’ll archive it.

We’ll press a wildflower inside.

And we’ll write, in careful green ink:

Subject: Woman refuses to abandon herself.

Status: No further action required.

🌾

“Some correspondence arrives as a complaint.

Around here, we call it evidence of a life well lived.”