Tuesday, August 2, 2011


Some of you may already know that my in-laws are gluttons for intense manual labor (digging trenches, roofing houses, lifting fully-loaded deep freezes with their bare hands). This is the natural course of life when you come from a family of six busy big boys.

Enter me, the wifey of the youngest. 

It's already been established that I do not have height. 

I work out. Every other month or so. I don't think anyone would look at me and call me muscular or particularly strong. 
But they will call me a monster.

You see, my husband forgets that I'm not a buff massive dude like one of his brothers. So when it's time to move the furniture, haul trees, or hike the mountain he does not understand why my poor little muscles cannot take the heat. 

I try my darnedest, I really do. When it was time to help some dear friends of ours move this weekend, I tried to carry my fair share of the load up the stairs from the U-haul to the apartment. 

It was a lot of work, but really, I been assigned heavier crosses to bear (literally). 

So when our friend called me a "monster" on behalf of my hauling efforts, I really just had to laugh.

What woman would ever want to be called a monster (any animal or human grotesquely deviating from the normal shape, behavior, or character, often so much so that it frightens people)?

I'm pretty sure it was meant as a compliment--but, probably one that will only make my husband's heart swell with pride.  

No comments:

Post a Comment