Growing up in a brother-less household, my sisters and I did our fair share of furniture moving and pasture fence building and house painting and barn building and all those other fun things that you do on a small farm-like place with no brothers.  As Tracey and I moved yet another dresser or bed or couch, she would ask, “Are you a man or a mouse?” at which point I would firmly say “Man!” and we would lift and grunt and haul away.  I loved it; I really did.  I have to admit, I looked at women who had to have a guy lift a box for them with slight scoffing and disdain.   (There, I admitted the pride I held/hold in my lifting abilities.)

But I’ve come to the blessed realization that I am not a man.  Brilliant, I know.  It’s not that I don’t want to break a nail or anything (though breaking a nail is hazardous).  I mean, I still lift boxes and work and remodel and stuff.  But I like having men around to do most of the manly stuff.  The beauty of only having sisters?  They marry manly men and have manly sons.  The beauty of being a daughter?  I have a manly dad who, though he taught us to work, bore most of the “guy jobs” at home without a complaint.  The beauty of being a wife?  I have a manly man of a husband.  (Boy, is he manly.  Be still my fluttering heart.)

So, nowadays, I pass along the lifting of furniture and roofing of houses to the men about.  Case in point…my manly husband who changed my car’s oil  tonight.  Yes, I will once again let my pride out to say that I have indeed changed oil (once or twice).  Do I enjoy it?  Naaaaaahh, not so much.  I’ll let My manly Man take care of it.