It's around midnight. I've flown for seven hours, landed, and refuelled from a self-serve pump that is fussy about how you insert the credit card (If you want to know: put it in and out of the reader really fast, while twisting it slightly to the left). The battery clip came out of my headset and I couldn't find it in the cockpit, so I'm a bit annoyed about that. I hope it shows up tomorrow in daylight. I'm still wearing the baseball cap I had on to keep the sun out of my eyes, even though it set a couple of hours ago.
I walk into the hotel carrying my flight bag plus a tub of company paperwork, including a printer. I loathe that printer. There are a couple of people dressed for a party, partly blocking the hall, and as I have a wide load, instead of barging through, I pause to let them move out of the way.
One of them says, "Bro, where are you going with that?"
I think I said my room number, which of course you're not supposed to do in hotels, but as if they weren't going to see which room I went into anyway. I'm not sure what his response was, but his companion advises him, "I think that's a girl."
I realize belatedly that "bro" is not normally a unisex form of address. I was totally willing to accept it as such, and not as a slur against my femininity. Inside the hotel room I look in the mirror. I look like a girl to me. Got boobs and everything. I'm even wearing a ladies cut t-shirt that is tighter than I would have chosen myself, but I took someone else's advice on the correct size because fashion is not my forté.
I think it was a combination of my utilitarian clothing, the tired 'don't mess with me' expression, and the fact that he was drunk.