The other rainy morning at a local coffee shop an elderly man held the door for me. Whitehaired and slightly stooped, we exchanged smiles.

As I walked out, a woman passed me going in. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the man touch the brim of an invisible hat and say to her, “M’lady,” giving her a little bow.

The woman scowled. I paused, sensing something was amiss. She pulled out an earbud, unleashing fury like a grenade in a glass house.

“Did you just call me a lady?”

Flustered, the man looked around to ensure he was not in an alternative universe, put his hand to his ear, “Pardon?”

She stepped closer, “Do I look like a hooker or someone too weak to open a door?”

“Um, no,” he looked at the door and back at her. “I was just–”

I stepped between them. “He didn’t mean ‘lady’ like that,” I said defensively. “He was just being polite. Tone it down.”

“Tone it down?” she snapped, sliding me into her crosshairs.

“You should be on my side!” She pointed in his face. “It is 2025! I don’t need rescuing.”

Arms flailed like a tangled marionette, she called over her shoulder, “I don’t need help from men — or anyone!”

That rainslicked doorway became our Brink of Culture Clash. I paused between manners and perceived benevolent sexism because — I need help, all the time.

I do mean all the time: opening pickle jars, fixing the spinny thing on the tractor, negotiating with stock options, dealing with dead chipmunks in the horse bucket, airport pickups on 20 minutes notice. I might need 20 bales of hay in a halfhour — or a pant hemmed. Heck, I am writing this column from Montreal, and two hours ago my husband just provided 40 minutes of excellent step-by-step google walking directions from the bus station to my hotel.

The elderly man held the door because he was taught “ladies first,” perhaps even knowing its origin.

On Feb. 26, 1852, HMS Birkenhead struck an uncharted rock off South Africa. As the ship sank, LtCol Alexander Seton ordered his men to “stand fast,” allowing women and children to evacuate first. All 26 women and children survived; 445 soldiers perished. The selfless, disciplined protocol of women and children first is now known as the “Birkenhead Drill.”

But how did holding a door — a gesture born of chivalry — become a weaponized act of performative kindness? How did accepting help from a man morph into oppression?

The genesis of the woman’s fury could stem from a thousand deeprooted injustices: wage gaps, pinkcollar segregation, glass ceilings, inheritance restrictions, pregnancy discrimination, education inequity, sexual harassment, gender-based violence, to name a few.

Her deep-seated emotions are absolutely justified — but unleashing viperspitting ire over a simple door-hold? That’s like setting off fireworks in a library: loud, ill-timed and bewilderingly theatrical.

I’d like to say I took time to try and deescalate her misconception, that the two sat down and shared a cuppa and their stories, but we all walked away.

We’re messy humans with big egos and small gestures, and sometimes all it takes is holding a door to remind us that we’re not islands.