I am a tame cow.

Lifting that shovel, I realized something was wrong. I scraped metal against the metal of the wheel barrow, repetitively lifting soil and transporting it to the compost, slowly adding a layer to encourage the lovely long process. My arm muscles slowly started to burn, and instead of enjoying it, I tried to recall the last time they did that- worked hard. I imagined and predicted the coming hunting trip, stepping over fallen logs, ducking under branches, crouching, standing, squats, pushups, hiking. I may die. I’ve become a walking breadstick dipped in ranch. I’ve become a girl whose workout comes from a once-a-week garden hobby. I’ve become heavier, both in the hips, and in the mind, and I realize that right now I choose booze, food, and laziness over a finesse that could survive in the wild. I am a tame cow.