But first, welcome to my locker room, or is it the women’s lounge? I must have gone to a hundred basketball games as a kid, but I never got to go to the Locker Room. That’s where Mom said I didn’t want to go, “It’s nothing but a lot of hot and sweaty men.”

I never bothered to ask her how she knew that. Relegated to the Women’s Lounge, I could only dream about what it would be like if we were allowed in that forbidden world.

And wouldn’t it be my luck that years later, I finally got to see a locker room (at the opening party of the Miami Heat) and take a picture in front of Rony Seikaly’s cubicle? Is that what they even call it? He was their number one draft pick at the time, so Mom said that was as good a spot as any to take a photo.

It turns out, I can’t find that photo for the life of me, and whatever came of Rony Seikaly, either?

But that’s beside the point, ah yes, the point, Stephanie.

I never really fit into either world: the women’s lounge or the men’s locker room. Sort of indicative of how I lived most of my life–able to get along with both sexes. I could hang in the women’s lounge or the men’s locker room (if they’d have just let me).

Lounging with the women didn’t make me a girly girl, nor did fraternizing with the men make me a tomboy.

There was no Men Are From Mars Women Are From Venus in my world. Except, truth be told, if I had to pick one, I’d rather be in the locker room.

Women are great; I am one, don’t get me wrong, but I was never known as a girly girl.

The actual test came when a friend asked me to go to the movies (with some other people). The invitation was so ambiguously worded (she’d buy the tickets) and so last minute (who could get a babysitter the night before anyway?), it could only mean one thing in my mind: girl’s night out.

I was psyched. Not often, okay, never, had anyone invited me on a girl’s night out. It would have been as unique as if the Women’s Lounge had been off-limits to the men.

I proudly told Alex, “I’ve got plans. I’m going to the movies–you know, just the girls.”

He tried to break it to me. “You’re not exactly the type.”

“What do you mean?” I was getting so defensive. “Of course, I’m the type.”

“No offense. It’s just people don’t think of you that way.”

I got offended, so he changed his tactic. “When was the last time you went to the movies with the girls?”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” I said. And to be extra jugular, I said, “It’s not like you’re a guy’s guy. It’s Raining Men was your favorite song until I told you what you were singing about.”

Granted, English wasn’t his first language. He liked the beat. But when I tried to use it against him, he just said, “You’re right, I’m not a guy’s guy.”

He wasn’t going in that men’s locker room, either.

So I get to the movies, and I see my friend’s husband coming out of line with popcorn and that cardboard container for the drinks in his other hand.

He saw me and smiled, “Where’s Alex? Parking the car?”

I laughed, still not getting it. “No, he’s at home with the girls.”

Her husband very sweetly said, “Janet’s already sitting down saving our seats.”

And then another couple came up to us. My friend’s husband introduced us as we were all going to be watching this movie together. I awkwardly lied that we couldn’t get a babysitter at the last minute.

So I went to sit down in my seat of shame, sandwiched between my friend and her husband for two and a half hours.

I had way too much time to wonder how I could have thought it would be just us girls.

By the time I got in the car, I had laughed until I cried, telling Alex that he was right. I’m not a girly girl, after all.

But now that I have breast cancer, I’ve learned that it has its perks. (Is it so wrong to put those two words in the same sentence?) I’ve joined the girl club.

And I’m enjoying the view from the women’s lounge. It’s not so bad over here, after all. I’m tapping into my girl power and having fun with it. The other day, a woman friend sent me a bracelet that says “OTB.”

From my NYC days, I remember that stood for Off Track Betting. However, it means, One Tough B in the breast cancer world. (Does this mean I’m a girly girl after all?)

Maybe now I could go on that girls night out movie. Okay, that’s as likely as Alex knowing what the words meant to “It’s Raining Men.”

And the men, who choose to come into my lounge/locker room, well, you’re more than welcome. There’s no girl side/boy side over here.

My world is just a little of both the women’s lounge and the men’s locker room. And that’s just fine by me.