The Uppity Woman and the Missing Television

Lady Uppity discovers what was missing was never the television.

Once upon a time, in the Kingdom of Proper Behavior, women over sixty were expected to knit quietly and apologize for existing.

Then one morning, upon discovering that her television was not in its usual place, Lady Uppity stormed through the palace shouting:

“WHERE IS MY TELEVISION?”

Courtiers fainted. Men dropped monocles.

The Duke, who mistook volume for wisdom, barked, “Damn women and their blasted hormones, always complaining and spouting off for no damn reason!”

Lady Uppity herself was startled by the sound of her own voice. Loud. Demanding. Entirely unlike her.

For years she had made every effort to be agreeable, nearly invisible, careful not to ask too many questions and certainly never to make demands.

She was not meek, exactly.

She was simply practiced in caution.

She believed quietness was protection.

But this morning, something in her had snapped awake.

It had begun earlier in the day.

She had been minding her own business in the Room of Productivity, seated comfortably with her small leather-bound journal open in her lap. Around her, other women knitted with the solemn concentration of those who had long ago mistaken duty for virtue.

Lady Uppity was writing.

Across from her sat a younger woman with the fresh confidence of someone who had not yet been dismissed by time.

Though pretending to read, the woman kept glancing over the top of her book.

At last, she rose, crossed the room, and stood beside Lady Uppity.

She looked down at the journal, placed one hand upon Lady Uppity’s shoulder, and said in a voice polished sharp by condescension:

“Aren’t you too old to be doing that?”

She nodded toward the journal.

“To be writing?”

Then, glancing toward the knitters, she added:

“Wouldn’t it be better if you were knitting?”

Fear clutched Lady Uppity’s throat. Her breath went shallow. Her heart beat far too fast.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then she rose slowly, took one long breath, and did what she had done so many times before.

She smiled politely.

Looked the woman in the eye.

And walked away.

The Room of My Own Damn Mind

“I believe I shall go to my room,” she murmured to herself.

Her room was her haven, her refuge.

The moment she opened the door, her sweet little pups bounded toward her in ecstatic welcome.

The room was large and sunny, with windows overlooking the vast sea. Just beyond them sat a small deck where she often watched dolphins arc through the waves like creatures who had never once asked permission.

Her antique writing desk stood beneath one window, scattered with books, pens, journals, and loose pages. A small vase of fresh flowers rested in the corner.

And books she had.

Lady Uppity was especially fond of books about women—their history, their language, their brilliance, their loud strengths and their quiet ones.

She gently shut the door, set her journal beside an outrageously comfortable chair, and made herself a cup of tea.

That is when it happened.

She settled into the chair and reached for the remote.

There was an Agatha Christie mystery she had been particularly eager to watch.

She lifted the remote, aimed it toward the far wall—

And froze.

No television.

It all came tumbling down then.

The years of holding back.

The years of saying it’s fine when it was not fine at all.

The years of doing what was expected instead of what was desired.

Without pausing for breath or composure or any of the ladylike arts, she bolted from the room, flew into the Hall of Youth Worship, and cried:

“WHERE THE HELL IS MY TELEVISION?”

Silence.

Mouths fell open.

Monocles dropped.

No one spoke.

Well—no one except the Duke, who always had an opinion and required witnesses for it.

“Someone fetch her water,” he snapped. “And a Valium!”

At first, Lady Uppity was astonished by the force of her own demand.

Then sadness rose.

For she knew the rules.

Women her age were expected to be grateful, dutiful, soft-spoken, and nearly decorative.

But something had changed.

She was determined to find the television.

And more than that, she was determined never again to bow so obediently to nonsense.

Right there in the hall, she made a vow:

She would speak.

She would use her voice as a lantern.

She would light the way for other women who had been told to dim themselves.

Then she heard a whisper, soft as silk and steady as truth:

“You are never too much.
Never too late.
Never too needy.
And you will never be too old.”

Lady Uppity returned to her room, now permanently renamed The Room of My Own Damn Mind.

There stood the television exactly where it had always been.

She went still.

Then she noticed the cord lying on the floor.

Unplugged.

Lady Uppity laughed the laugh of a woman who suddenly understood several things at once.

She bent down, took hold of the cord, and plugged it in herself.

The screen flickered to life.

She settled back into her chair, lifted the remote like a scepter, and smiled.

“Excellent,” she said.

“Now I shall choose what plays.”

Somewhere in the palace, monocles trembled.