Instead, I fear that I'm turning into a tomboy.
A fun day for me includes getting really sweaty and dirty, exploring the woods, capturing bugs, standing in the middle of my garden eating just-picked okra, cherry tomatoes, or peas. It might include wading in the creek, cutting trails through the woods, tossing grasshoppers into the pond to see if fish will rise, or foraging for wild greens and berries. Maybe it includes lying on the ground to cloud watch, tracking rabbit prints in the snow, or climbing trees to check on baby birds. It might include concocting strange drinks from flower blossoms, producing candles from beeswax and lard, or making a green salad entirely from four-leaf clovers. It almost always involves getting into some kind of mischief.
My hair is short and tucked behind my ears. My nails are ragged, without polish, and usually confirm that I forgot to wear gloves while working in the garden.
On a good day, I might take an outdoor shower and apply sunscreen to my face, perhaps some chap stick to my lips, maybe a dab of Deet® behind my ears. My outfit of choice is striped overalls and a long-sleeve tee shirt. I prefer cotton camisoles to Wonderbras. My shoes are old lace-up work boots -- or, if I'm being fancy, my Dansko clogs.
I often feel like my childhood literary heroes: Pippi Longstockings, Jo March, Scout Finch, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Peppermint Patti – all rolled into one. I'm almost 59, going on 10.
I'm sure that I'm not the kind of woman Ed bargained for when we married 30 years ago. But he's pretty much stuck with me now – and most days, he's right at my side, getting into mischief with me.