I love stacking hay. At least that’s the big talk I talk until my arms are sore four bales in. Tom’s hay is made by his neighbor in exchange for soybean and corn acreage. This year he made 392 bales.
We were a hour away house sitting a chihuahua, two shih tzus and a parrot when Tom got the “hay is ready” text from his mom.
Considering I hadn’t been to the gym all week and just said I needed to get back on the work-out/healthy eating wagon (soon as I eat 1/2 a bag of M&Ms and watch six more episodes of Girl Code). I should have been ecstatic. And I really was but I may or may not have tried to get out of it by saying someone (me!) should stay with the dogs.
We went and good thing because it kicked my butt enough to make me actually work-out once I recovered and because photo op! I was so set on getting this picture of us in the wagon that I started posing ahead of time. Then slipped on some loose hay. And fell off the wagon. In. slow. motion. In front of his whole family. My shin has a huge bruise so I can’t soon forget it. It was hysterical and extremely humbling. Just as humbling as trying to stack my share of 392 hay bales.