Last Saturday, my apartment looked like this. Later that day, through the generosity of my (now former) roommate and the donated labor of his summer roommates, I added a couch to the middle of my then expansive living space.
I carried almost everything else in solo. Every box from my car and each piece of furniture, basically every scrap of material possession in this place, was carried in by my scrawny little arms. Before that, I packed the entire contents of my bedroom and classroom in Brownsville in my Corolla with my own two hands and my own Target-sandaled feet.
Not only that, but I built three of the furniture pieces with my black and yellow tools. I sweat and I slaved and I tasted the fruits of industry - and they were sweet, my friends.
Less than a week after moving in, I had unpacked every last box and placed every last item. I'm out-pacing Rome by a long shot, and I even gave the Lord a run for his money. And now, a week and a day later, my apartment looks like this:
And I did all of these things by myself. And what is more, I did somewhere between 60-75% of these things in a skirt. I defy any man to make the same claim.
And so, I claim the voice of the speaker in this ballad as my own, and I stand on my duck-crap covered patio, stand tall and dehydrated, and proclaim in an unwavering voice, "I am woman! See me build a table."