Earlier today, I tweeted about having done some serious shoveling.
Two hours of shovelling = two bags of chips and a pound of bacon, right?
— Ashley MI (@imashleymi) March 15, 2015
Shortly after tweeting about shoveling and lamenting that my arms might fall off and my legs felt like jello, I received a direct message from one of my male followers.
“Your (sic) going to have to find a big, strong man to do all that shovelling (sic) for you ;).”
It was a lot of hard work. Two hours worth, in fact. As I plowed my way through the enormous bank at the entrance to the driveway (thanks, snow plow driver man), M chimed in “You’re a real trooper, I’ll give you that. It’s impressive, actually.”
When I lived in Moncton, one of the first snow storms took us all (a little bit) by surprise. In fact, I’m pretty sure my snow removal team didn’t know how to clear a driveway yet because they sure as heck didn’t come by. I went out and shoveled the drive way not once, not twice, but five times – keeping it clear as the snow continued to fall. At one point, a female neighbour who was out walking her dog stopped and asked how I was making out.
“I can’t believe you’re out here shoveling! That’s what husbands are for.”
Really, lady? I know it shouldn’t bother me, but the notion that I need a guy to do things for me really pisses me off. Perhaps because I used to believe that I needed a guy. To shovel my driveway. To clear off my car. To make me happy.
But I don’t.
And I think a certain man with a clear driveway would agree that he’s pretty glad he had a little, strong girl to do the heavy lifting with him today.