I may not look different to you today. But I am. I am now the proud owner of a grease gun!
Yes, I bought the gun, the grease, and I have now loaded grease into all the grease fittings on my manure spreader. I am very cheerful. There is something about oily black grease smeared on your hands that makes a girl feel powerful.
It turns out that grease comes in many colors. Black, blue, pink, green.
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“Brand, mostly. Then weight. What color do you like?” A tube was placed on the counter. “This is what most of the guys around here buy.”
Of course I bought it. With any luck, regular applications of grease will protect my spreader from more trashed gears, like this one.
I don’t think I’ll ever have much mechanical intelligence, but it is thrilling to me to begin to learn some of the small mysteries beyond refilling my oil, antifreeze, and washer fluid.
I am someone who has always lived in her head (a cluttered and highly idiosyncratic apartment). For me, learning more about my physical world — how things work, whether it’s an engine or the life cycle of a salamander — is simultaneously exciting and deeply reassuring.
Other women entertain themselves strolling around city art galleries. I find I get a happy charge walking into my NAPA store.