You've come a long way, baby?

My job is a contradiction. Some days I get to dress up, go to fancy A-list parties, get VIP access and hobnob with celebrities (by this I mean, shake Rainn Wilson's hand, ride in an elevator with Flo Rida - the whole time looking at my feet because I wasn't certain that's who he was - and make sure Diddy/Puffy/Daddy/Combs gets his Moonlit Mist candle in his green room). Other days, and actually most days, I find myself in the most peculiar of situations.

I'm often required to drive a 16-foot cube truck around town, toting anything from lion statues, chandeliers, and carpets to Christmas trees, couches and migrant workers. I end up at construction sites, garages that pose as storefronts for velour drapes, but really house an intricate pirate community (you know who you are), the Home Depot lumber yard, a field in Strathroy in search of a 350lb statue named Xenia (saucy minx), various car dealerships and countless loading docks.

As a tall, slight brunette who enjoys wearing sunglasses anytime between the hours of 8am and 8pm regardless of weather and who has a penchance for high heels, I fear I am often 'misunderstood' by the people I come across at work. Sure, I can pretend that I fit in at the party with Lindsay Lohan and Thelma Houston (although, who am I kidding? I don't at all), but I stick out like a sore thumb with a sapphire ring on it at the stockyards and construction zones.

Everyone knows it's a man's world, but it's never more clear than when you are the only female in sight trying to pretend you belong there. I've learned you have to buck up, look them straight in the eye (through the sunglasses if possible) and convince them that, you too, can drive this scissor lift, thank you very much! I am fully capable of lifting these ________ (insert heavy piece of furniture, slate piece or migrant worker here). I don't need your help one bit! Oh, but could you pleeease get the door for me?

Other times, (Sexual Revolution be damned!) it helps to act as clueless as they interpret and expect you to be and perhaps even flirt a little (this may require the removal of sunglasses). I don't condone this behaviour as the ideal way of handling it, but I'll admit, when I turn on the doe eyes and shrug my shoulders, I can usually get the gruffest of men to help me out.

Except for that one time that I hit this guy's car while backing up my huge cube truck. Hello? Can't he hear the incessant reverse beeping? And besides, I'm just a helpless young girl, too delicate to be put in charge of this big machine...