pioneer max
Hmm. I have been doing the mountain thing now for nine months. And here is what I have found out. You know those pioneer girls? The ones who hopped into wagons with hope chests and china cabinets and overcame drout and fire and flood and locusts to tame the Wild West and somehow through it all kept their china cabinets intact?
Um, I am not one of those girls.
I am one of the girls who ended up dead on the trail. And the china cabinet would have gone for kindling first. . . .
I must have too many genes from the Boston side of the family. I try to do this stuff. Okay, technically I do do this stuff. I dig ditches. I haul water. I chop apart trees. But those pioneer girls wound up in front of nice toasty fires admiring their china cabinets and where do I end up?
In an emergency room. Being told by docs to knock it off.
The rest of my family is not like this. They swing away and they are fine. Of course, they are all at least 3 inches taller and 25 pounds heavier than me and that is just the girls. No one has ever figured out where waif girl me came from but the word "throw back" has been tossed around from time to time.
Basically, I am Scarlett O'Hara trapped in Melanie's body. And that is so wrong but there it is. I am not built for pioneer stuff. And I am thinking maybe it is time for this not-a-pioneer girl to go back to the city. You know, that place with little buttons on the wall you push and lights turn on and the house gets warm? Where you turn a little handle and hot water comes out of a tap? That place?
I am missing that place.
Your Not-A-Pioneer Adams Girl
