As I have said in the past, I’m an old woman. I don’t see myself as old because I can hike further and kayak longer than some people decades younger than me, but on the way to doing a volunteer project involving manual labor yesterday, I’m ashamed to admit I was considering playing the Age Card. Especially if they wanted me to paint.
We were supposed to meet at 8 am at the home of a financially challenged, disabled person to paint her home’s exterior, clean up her yard, build a porch, clear a tree that had fallen on her house, repair a rusty sliding door and garage door, etc. I was okay with all of that except the painting. I hate painting. When I arrived at the home, the first thing the volunteer coordinator said, “Great, another painter! I’ll show you where the brushes are and get you started.”