Dirty Farm Girl

Like any farm girl, I have ‘dress’ jeans and ‘dress’ hiking shoes. I walk like a newborn baby calf in heels. I have dresses which require me to knock the dust off when I need them. I wear the same five pieces of jewelry to work, the same three to the barn(no rings allowed outside, I like my fingers). I will try on everything decent thing I own at least once prior to a night out, but it will only take me ten minutes. I will end up wearing one of the same three shirts I always do with one of two pairs of tight ass jeans, probably the ones with intentional frays. I will leave what I am not wearing strewn about the bedroom. A good day is a day I don’t have to fit in a shower until I am in for the night and I can skip shaving everything that won’t itch as a result. I can be showered and ready in thirty-five minutes, including makeup and try on time. In the winter, I will be warm and it won’t be cute. I will spend more on a blanket for my sissy ass show horse than I will on a coat for myself. My house is organized, but dusted and vacuumed rarely. I spend most nights at home so I can afford my horses. Campfires are free. You will find hair in your food, on your clothes, and now and then perhaps in the crack of your ass when you visit, eat or stay here. There is always a clump of my hair in the tub drain and a few strands wrapped around the soap because I shed too and I am a busy girl.

I may not be a fairy tale princess

I know dedication. I know love. I know tolerance. I know loyalty. I know hard work. I know big reward. I know what it means to give yourself to something one hundred and ten percent. I understand I get no vacation days, no sick time, no benefits most days beyond the wind in my hair and the grass under my feet. I’ve slept in a cold barn three winter nights in a row to nurse a sick horse with nothing but a portable heater, a straw bale bed and a girlfriend as dedicated as I am. I understand responsibility and I know you don’t ever get a break from it. I’m happy to pick the hair out of my food, work more than I relax, sometimes spend more than I make, organize more than I clean, and endure weather no one in their right mind would ever walk out in, let alone ride a horse through.

My dad used to put people we worked with into three categories, those who would die for the company, those who would kill for the company and those who don’t care. He always said I was a ‘kill for the company’ girl. He would go into battle with me. That’s the highest compliment my father pays anyone.

Farm girls. We may be dirty, awkward at times, and feel most comfortable in cotton, but you can take us into battle and rest assured you will get a hundred and ten percent.