Ruralosexual

This Article appeared in our local paper. The author is John Gladden, and his columns are hilarious. Thanks John for your humor.....we love it.

You might be a ‘ruralosexual’ if you can relate to this column
By: John Gladden July 21st, 2009 · Medina Gazzette

In recent years, the term “metrosexual” has burrowed its way into the public dictionary, describing a person who is urban, stylish and has a penchant for luxury. The word has been applied to the likes of actor Brad Pitt, soccer star David Beckham, and others among the similarly hip and famous.
Somehow, it doesn’t seem to describe me or most of the people I know. Most of us don’t live in big cities, couldn’t care less about what’s in fashion, and don’t spend a dollar we don’t have to. We’re more like “ruralosexuals.”
How do you know you’re a ruralosexual? Well, the first sign may be that you are vaguely uncomfortable with any word that has “sexual” in it.
Nevertheless, you can bet you’re a ruralosexual if:

Your idea of entertainment is pulling up a chair and watching the chickens strut around the yard.

The smells of good hay and freshly turned earth are better than perfume.

You run a tab at the parts store.

In summer, you mow your grass once a month, whether it needs it or not.

Most of what’s in your freezer is food you produced yourself.

You know where to find wild berries all summer long.

Throwing something away goes against every moral fiber of your being.

You have stay-at-home clothes and going-into-town clothes.

A good day is when you don’t have to go into town at all.

Your idea of getting a snack is taking a paring knife and salt shaker out to the garden.

You slow down and look at every truck, tractor or piece of equipment for sale at the side of the road.

You’re always racing the sun.

Your thumbs and the sides of your index fingers are stained with dirt for the duration of the

summer from pulling weeds in the garden.

It’s just “fair,” not “the fair.” As in: I’m getting ready for fair.

Your spouse can tell how nasty a chore you plan on doing any given day by the age and condition of the ball cap you put on when you walk out the door.

You’ve taken care of puppies and kittens abandoned on your road.

You’ve reached your hands into places that would scare Indiana Jones.

You’ve fixed things that would stump even MacGyver.

You’ve put on moves that would rival Michael Jackson as you’ve danced out of the way of moving livestock, angry bees, loaded skunks and ankle-twisting groundhog holes.

The wannabes in the cowboy hats just make you smile.

You spend more time outside than in.

You don’t know your own cell phone number, but you have the vet’s number memorized.

You’ve “used the facilities,” shall we say, from a moving tractor because you didn’t want to stop work.

You’ve stopped work to let a family of rabbits scurry to safety.

The patches on your clothes have patches on them.

You know how to blow your nose without using a tissue.

Every time you hear someone driving a tractor up the road, you know who it is by the sound of the engine.

Broken-down vehicles and rusty machines just seem like a natural part of the landscape.

You’ve nearly put your vehicle into a ditch because you were so intently studying a garden, building, crops or animals you were passing by.

Your primary unit of organization is “pile,” as in: a pile of scrap, a pile of manure, a pile of wood, a pile of trouble.

You enjoy getting soaked in a well-needed rain as much as plants do.

What was supposed to be a “temporary fix” on a building or piece of equipment has lasted 10 years.

You live by the rule that if it’s free, you take it.

In the winter, you’d rather watch the fire in the stove, or the fireflies outside on a summer night, than to watch TV.

You worry when the wind blows, when it’s too dry or too wet, when it’s too cold or too hot.

You’ve been so filthy, you’ve had to undress on the porch before being allowed to enter the house.

You wish there was an open season on trespassing four-wheelers.

You have an everyday pocketknife and a special-occasions pocketknife.

A date with your significant other usually involves a stop at the tractor store.

You’ve got dirt under your fingernails, except for the one that’s busted off.

You pull off your T-shirt and your skin looks like you are still wearing a white T-shirt.

You’ve stopped along the road to salvage a stick of firewood that fell off someone’s truck.

You envy people with 40-hour workweeks and regular paychecks, but you wouldn’t trade places with them for anything.