ARMS, a FLASHBACK, and the THIRD OF JULY

I've got a few people asking how the move is going. Here's the current state of things:
Yesterday the day was spent packing boxes, moving crates filled with antiques into pods, carrying boxes, running to Walmart for rope (no, not to hang anyone), showing the rental to prospective buyers, hauling more boxes, and more boxes.

D'Artagnan slapped me on the buttocks at the end of our work and enthusiastically said, "You did great! No mamby-pamby skinny girl in this ward could have done what you did. You even lifted those rugs up over your head and threw them on top of everything!" (explanation: these were multiple rolled up 10x12 Persian rugs that weigh about as much as a lazy grandmother).

This compliment made me pause. I looked at his face. There was sincere admiration behind those blue eyes. He wasn't blowing smoke. "Oh," I thought," how wonderful to be a mamby-pamby skinny girl and be admired for something else."

"Thanks," I muttered.

He caught my hesitancy. "No. I'm serious. All those girls with their skinny arms would whine and whine..."I can't lift this! This is too heavy! Wah, wah, wah!" I can't stand 'em. Look at your arms! No woman has arms like that. I'll take you anyday."

FLASHBACK TO MELONIE'S HIGH SCHOOOL: It is late spring, English class, Sr. year, I am looking around the room at all the tan skinny arms on every single girl but me. I start to envy, to covet even. I only weighed 103 lbs, but have the back and shoulders of a quarterback. I lean over to the girl next to me. "Excuse me? Could you tell me how you get your arms so skinny?"

BACK TO PRESENT: Later in the day, we were getting ready for the most amazing firework and movie outside party in the park behind our house. It is a great bash and neighbors bring many friends and perhaps even strangers wander in. I had gone down to the park and was walking back, weaving through the crowd. I was tired, but my three-year old boy was more tired. I picked him up, lifted him over my head, and put him on my shoulders. His hands were sticky, so instead of him holding onto my head with his hands, I held his hands high and tight holding mine. Picture my arms, exposed in my short-sleeve T-shirt, being held out straight and proud...kind of like Rocky running up the steps, but with a three-year old on his shoulders.

I am walking straight ahead, and I must have looked like something to see, because a mamby-pamby girl saw me coming, looked me over, and started laughing. She thought I didn't notice. She turned to her boyfriend, whispered something, and he turned to look. He looked at my breasts, my arms, and snickered too. They watched me walk past.

"Pioneer stock," I said.

As I passed these sniggering twenty-somethings whose bodies were lean and flanks were thin, I thought of my own body and what it had done that day. I thought of all the boxes and crates it had moved. I thought of how my husband loved me and appreciated what God had given me. I thought of how I am able to lift my 37-lb. boy over my head and carry him when he is tired. I thought of all the people these short, stocky arms have held, hugged, and loved.

I smiled to myself and didn't give those mamby-pambys a second glance.