Friday, September 3, 2010

driving the truck

The low rumble of the engine, fireman's gear behind me, and the toolbox full of man things.

Sometimes necessity insists that I drive his truck. And it makes me laugh.

Don't get me wrong. I like watching my man pull up in his manly truck. He's a firefighter. Firefighter's drive trucks and rescue people from burning buildings. He's tough. And a truck fits.

But I'm a girl's girl. To be quite honest I like to accessorize and wear lipgloss. I like to carry a cute bag and smell pretty. A feels like I have bitten off a bite bigger than I can chew. And it must be obvious.

Whenever I drive his truck, other men feel the need to help. Literally. On more than one occasion I have had strangers direct me in parking lots, "clearing the way" so I can move about.

They all but wave florescent orange wands and break out those bright yellow vests, while giving me that "poor woman-driver" look. And it's not that I can't drive the thing. Oh, I can drive it pro-like. ;) They just wonder.

And I cannot arrive anywhere incognito because the roar of his engine can be heard a mile away. I have been tempted to turn off the motor and coast those final feet to my destination in neutral to avoid the stares. But I don't. And people look.

I have decided to just wave and smile, confident in my truck-ride.

It's just funny. And the other night I had to laugh...and then share with you.

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