My profession is not one of which I dreamed of pursuing; more like it pursued me and when it caught me, it tackled me to the ground.
As a little girl my dreams of a future career changed as often as the seasons, but one consistent shade could be found in each season; vibrant femininity.
Fashion designer, news reporter, singer (I’m plagued with stage fright so I should’ve known that was a no-go.), Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader, and a Rockette: I wanted nothing more than to be laden with sequins, perfume, stilettos, stylists, and all things girly, and not just occasionally, daily.
God made me a girl: I wonder if when He created me, He sprinkled a little extra glitter into my soul.
Contrary to all of those things, is where I stand today.
My world is not colored by beautiful fabrics and patterns that pop, there are no juicy stories to share with others by the office water cooler or in front of lights and cameras, rather than an instrumental background: heavy machinery provide the bass, I do cheer on a group of sweaty men: but they don’t carry a football, and the only kicks I perform is when the drink machine steals my coins.
Unfortunately, I feel rather frumpy instead of fashionable in my daily attire: sequins are replaced with splatters of concrete, mud, diesel, and grease. My perfume is not sweet scents of amber and sandalwood, stilettos are substituted with shock absorbent boots and sneakers, and my stylist is the weather man.
In the evening, instead of washing two hours worth of make-up off my face, I wash a days worth of hard labor. My body aches, not for the weight of fashionable dress and uncomfortable heels, for I carried the weight of a business on my shoulders. My eyes burn, not for the flashes of hundreds of cameras and stage lights, but because I work outside where the sun beams down on my lowered head and bounces off the ground beneath onto my face. My ears ring, not because of rumors and gossip heard, but due to the hum of equipment and ringing of the phone.
My smile is faint: for it is lonely being a woman in a man’s world.
My office is not manicured and prestine, it’s dusty and disheveled: for I share it with 8 men. My A.C. is powered by the changing of the wind, not an eletrical surge. No, my profession is not one eagerly choosen by women.
Oh, but what I have!
Hearty, deep throated laughter caused by manly jesting, which is as contagious as children’s giggles, fills the atmosphere, a dedication to their fellow worker: like none other, and love that doesn’t have to be said, for it is felt.
But most importantly and surprisingly: A respect for me, and my femininity.
Though I am small in stature and weaker in strength, my men treat me as if I am the foundation of this business and the supports that hold it all together. Though they are the epitome of masculinity with their brute strength and coarse words, my men soften and bide their tounges at my presence. The warning shout of “boss-lady” rings out as I approach; quieting any lewd talk and curse words.
I may not have the career I dreamed of as a little girl, but I’m glad I don’t. God knew exactly where I needed to be, and here, being the femininty in a masculine world, I see glimpses of God’s design: had I been anywhere else I would’ve missed it.
God has you where you are right now for a reason; find your reason.