Amazonian at Work

The other day I was called “some kind of Amazon woman” at work, while hefting 40 pound bags of dirt (and manure--just because it’s composted doesn’t make it less messy--first one to develop a tear-proof manure bag gets an A+ and a lollipop), apparently making the bags look like the world’s filthiest (and least comfy) pillows. I took it as a compliment. Later, when I was called over to help another lady, she squeezed my upper arm before allowing me to load her dirt. An elderly couple even tipped me $2 for transporting a single bag from the shelf to their cart a foot away to their car idling on the sidewalk (the cash was in two $1 gold-colored coins featuring George Washington, the first in a presidential series, so it’s one tip I won’t be spending). There have been plenty of other puzzled looks and comments upon my approach, from “But you’re only as big as I am!” to “But I thought they’d get one of those big strong men to help me...” Thanks to the wealth of muscularly underdeveloped female gardeners out there, at least I can skip going to the gym.