I wish I could always wear work gloves.
You know, the crunchy, leather kind that mean you are mucking stalls, digging holes, fixing something mechanical, or just trying to avoid touching something really yucky.
Yeah, those gloves.
I had the pleasure of wearing them today to deal with some late plantings for the garden. Since I am so fabulously bad with plants, I refuse to buy them until the garden centers are almost willing to pay me to take them off their hands. Then I slap them in the ground, pour some miracle grow over them, water, and pray that they will come up again next year. (And I wonder why I am bad with plants…) Sometimes I just get lucky.
As I was moving around disposable plastic pots, packing down topsoil, and generally partaking in things muddy and gross, I realized that the work gloves I was wearing were not actually keeping my hands clean. There was still dirt packed under my fingernails. There were crumbly bits of soil rattling around in them. So why do I wear them? Because I love them.
There is something so butch, so tough about the gloves. They make me feel like I could rebuild a Mac truck engine, though I can’t even rebuild the Lego Star Wars cruiser that needs an overhaul. I stand taller, lift heavier things without bitching. There is a magic in them that makes me feel less suburban and more kick ass.
I look forward to late September early October, when I can plant my bulbs. Another excuse to wear the gloves. Another excuse to be kick ass.
The Blahg 