I Am A Viking

I was walking on stage at karaoke when Johnny Caruso stretched out his hand and offered to help me up.  “I got this,” I told him and walked on stage.  “But Marian, I wanted to help you.”  Note to self, must remember, men like to be helpful.  My parents raised me to be self-reliant.  I cannot tell you the number of times my father drilled into me, “You are Viking.”  Vikings are self-reliant.  Vikings travel the world taking what they need.  Vikings establish new territory.  No one conquers Vikings, and during the world wars they remained neutral.  Nothing is better than being Viking. 

I have eight great-grandparents, only two were Viking.  Those two hold the hallowed position of being my father’s father’s parents which endowed me with the awesome Swedish last name.  In the United States, a Swedish last name on a female conjures up the image of a statuesque, beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed, liberal, sexy woman. 

Viking self-reliance extends to my core.  I saw a friend at karaoke and asked where her husband was.  He hurt his back moving the mattress.  I acknowledged mattresses are heavy.  I told her I am working on a project involving rock, which is also heavy.  I was thinking about buying a wheel barrow but it is a single project.  Once it’s done I would have to store the wheel barrow.  It’s not worth it.  She asked how I was moving the rock.  Hauling it by the bagful.  She thought I was nuts.  No sweat, I am Viking.  When I buy the rocks at Home Depot they ask if I want help getting them in my car.  Absolutely not, I had no trouble getting it on the cart, I can load it in the car.  What do they think I am, a wuss?

When my daughter was little she wanted Christmas lights on the outside of the house.  That is filthy work.  I did not hesitate getting up on that ladder and stringing the lights amidst the dust.  Heck, I painted the entire house by myself.  I am a Viking.

Even a Viking has limits.  When Lily was little I purchased a swing set from Toys R Us which was no more than a quarter mile from my home.  I paid $40 to have it delivered.  My mother asked why.  Because the box weighed 200 pounds.  I cannot lift or move a 200 pound box.  It was being delivered to the back yard.  Then I was paying a man to assemble it.  She shook her head in disbelief. 

A company was going out of business and offered my daughter a 6’ framed mirror.  She wanted it.  Would I pick it up?  I met her at the business.  She shows me the mirror and tells me it is heavy.  I lift it, its okay.  I had already put the car seats down.  There is a man working on the asphalt.  “Ma’am, can I help you.”  He asks.  “I’ve got this.”  I tell him, “But thank you, I appreciate it.”  We load it in the car.  We go back upstairs to peruse the rest of the stuff the company does not want.  The owner looks at me and asks, “How did you do that?”  “Do what?”  “Lift that mirror.”  “I’m very strong.”  I tell her.  “I am a Viking,” I tell myself.  “That’s unbelievable.”  She says incredulously.  “I work out.”  I add. 

Being Viking extends beyond housework.  When I was pregnant I was told if I wanted an epidural I must preregister.  Two weeks before Lily was born my doctor asked if I preregistered.  No.  “Why not?”  He asked, “Do you hate yourself?”  I registered.  I do not hate myself.

A lot of people ask what kind of weight loss surgery I had.  None.  This is often followed with, “You/She did it the right way, diet and exercise.”  I lost 110 pounds with diet and exercise, but you do whatever you need for yourself.  It is your body.  I am not here to tell you there is a right way or a wrong way.  If you want to lose weight I encourage you to get yourself there however you want.  You do not always have to be a Viking.