I nearly jumped out of my skin yesterday when I noticed my forearms in the mirror. Not something you might typically examine in the mirror, but it was a special kind of a day. The day I noticed my forearms look more like the huge forearms of my fireman friend, Marvin. He and I went to high school together, and just recently saw each other at his fire station. That was when I noticed his forearms, which were normal, high school boy sized in our teens, but are now stronger than and bigger than the circumference of my thigh.
You can imagine, then, that when I looked in the mirror yesterday, I was concerned to see my thigh hooked to the space between my elbow and wrist. That’s enough to shock any city girl.
Eh-hem. I mean why should that shock a farm girl? Farm girls do a lot of farm work, so their forearms are strong! Why should I care about that? In fact, I’ve always taken pride in the fact that I am physically (if not always mentally) strong. But, I’m wondering if I’ve gone overboard. I can now lift the front of the car off the ground with one hand.
No. Wait. That was Superman when he was a boy on the dirt road in front of his house in Kansas or somewhere dusty like that.
But, I can pick up a whole, smallish, goat by myself. And I don’t even throw my back out when I do it!
Wow, times have changed. Milking and Yoga. They have both changed my physical stature.
Milking: For you city folk that might work in an office, you know those rubber squeeze ball things that are supposed to relieve stress or something? They’re kind of gel filled and squishy? And you squeeze them at times when your under stress or thinking or just need a small hand work out? Well, that’s my morning. And my night. I squeeze the equivalent of that thing about 429 times, twice a day. No wonder I have strong forearms.
Yoga: I used to throw my back out all the time. Then I’d be out of commission for 1, 2, or the worst and most recent time…3 weeks. Now, however, thanks to Downward Facing Dog, Crow, Forward Fold and about 13 gallons of sweat lost over the course of each hour I do yoga, I have a strong back that can withstand things like picking up goats.
The thing I’m almost done with though, is Lilac. You faithful students will recall that Lilac is our smallest milking goat. She is the one I have you milk so you will swear against EVER getting a small goat to milk. She is the one who I have to milk with two, maybe 3 fingers instead of my whole hand. She is the one with tiny teats. Who would ever have thought I would care about the size of teats on a goat??? I mean really!
Well, dear Lilac gives as much, or more milk that her bigger counterparts, Canela and Lucy, however, it takes me 3 times as long and 3 times as many squeezes to get the milk out. She is not the queen of efficiency. She is the queen of milk production. And, she’s the queen of making my hands cramp so much that a cuss word slips out every so often when I’m milking her. She’s the reason my right hand falls asleep in the middle of the night.
She’s why I have meat hooks for forearms.
And. She’s for sale. Sometime near the end of February or middle of March. I’ve got to give my forearms and cramped up hands a break and pass her on to the first toddler in line who has hands the right size for milking small goats.
– The Goat Cheese Lady