I have a confession. I used to silently judge these women that would come into Co-op and not know anything about killing weeds or, conversely, growing grass. They would ask me to put their $10 one gallon sprayer together before they left. “My husband always did this,” they would explain, sometimes glancing a little forlornly at their empty wedding ring finger. I would try (and often fail, I’m sure) to avoid rolling my eyes. I would instruct them on how much herbicide to mix, frequently using my ever-present mountain dew can as a prop. (I also did this for the men, because 100% of people carry the misconception that the more weed killer you use, the better. So wrong. So, so wrong.) Anyway, I haven’t mixed up or sprayed herbicide in ages and found both my sprayers gommed up because the last time they were used they didn’t get cleaned out. I was not the last one to use them, tyvm. So I had to prance in Co-op yesterday and buy a new one. I was on a cake delivery, anyway. I got my new Chapin sprayer out of the box this morning to use and was instantly assaulted by memories of the dozens I assembled for ladies.

I had almost forgotten what a joy it is to spray herbicide. I felt like the Terminator. I hope that every woman I ever helped felt just a little bit more empowered after she killed all the weeds in her fencerows.

I had NOT forgotten how terrifying it is to be on the roof on the backside of my house cleaning out gutters. But I did that today, too. Because I’m able and because no fairy is going to come in the night and do it for me. Because stuff has to get done. The world keeps on turning no matter what’s going on, be it pandemic, divorce, death, or a hundred other misfortunes.

My work will tell on me in less than a week. I think it will be ok. If not, I still know my way around sprayers and herbicides. Now, if somebody wanted to come mop my floors or wash my car, that’d be great.