Workin' in a coal mine/goin' down down down...

There is something to be said about a physically demanding, laborious day. Especially when you are working and getting paid for it. For the first time in my sheltered, bookworm life, I worked at a farmer's market. Maybe that doesn't sound too physically demanding. But let me take you through my past twelve hours.

4 am: Woke up. Had gone to sleep at midnight, so am operating at a low level.
5:15 am: Was picked up by crunchy granola girl who was also heading to farmer's market.
5:30 am: Arrive at Beaverton Farmer's Market. It is dark, cold, and slightly scary.
5:35 am: Immediately climb into huge truck to begin unloading a shitload of heavy Tupperware tubs full of produce, tarps, tents, baskets, tables, table tops, and other heavy awkward things.
6:00 am: Produce tubs are covered with water, which is repeatedly spilled on shoes and personage.
It takes altogether 2.75 hours to set up the Sugar Hill Farm tent, which is 3x larger than any other stand there. It is held together in a variety of idiosyncratic and possibly unsafe ways.
8:30 am: Market opens. Bell rings. Fear strikes into my heart. I am beyond exhausted, want to sit down, have to pee, and am covered with dirt. And the day hasn't even started.
9:05 am: Apparently the coffee and pastry tent next to us deals in trade! Once I am handed a (free) hot coffee and flaky peachy croissant, I revive.
9:15 am: Then I am shoved in front of the cash register with 3 seconds of training that consisted of "Use this calculator. Here is the scale. Memorize all 35 varieties of produce prices."
10:00 am: Begin to enjoy smiling cheesily at senior citizens and weighing their red bell peppers. Feel like I am bonding with my fellow humanity and doing good in the world.
11:20 am: Want to sit down. Want to sit down. Feet throbbing. Back throbbing. Flashbacks of tenth grade choir class and why I quit. Because I hate standing more than five minutes. Start to drool as people walk by cramming kettle corn and strawberry shortbread into their mouths.
12:05 pm: Thirty minute break. Don't know what to do with myself. Buy a bratwurst, then regret it, as the sun is barreling down and burning through my retinas. Hot, spicy meat. Mustard most likely smeared on face. Could possibly look like immigrant worker right now, as am sitting in grass and bleary-eyed and smelling of carrots and dirt.
1:14 pm: This shit needs to end. I want gelato. Why is no one in that stand watching me watch them and giving me free Nutella gelato?!
1:39 pm: Last-minute buyers. No, we're all out of heirloom tomatoes you stupid sun-baked bourgeoisie!
1:43 pm: Begin packing up. As arduous as unpacking, but with freedom in sight.
2:00 pm: Euphoria sets in as am given free rein to take home as much produce as my fat little hands can carry. I will be eating roasted beets and fresh basil for the next two months.
3:15 pm: Am paid cold, hard cash. Get in crunchy granola girl's car. Pass out.

So I feel like a farmer. I feel proud of myself. I earned every cent of that $10/hr. I have dirt under my nails. My body aches. My fridge is stuffed with rainbow chard. I don't even like chard. So there is something to be said for good, honest, hard labor. For a self-described Indoor person, I think I did okay. There should be a national Do Hard Manual Labor Day in America. It would solve a lot of aggression problems.