When the revolution comes, I think I’m going to be executed. The evidence? My hands. On Sunday, I worked in the garden. I dug vermiculite and compost into my raised beds and covered them with straw so the beds can have a nice rest until spring. Then I began to dig in the dirt on the other side of the yard.

I thought, hey, I’m pretty strong. It’ll probably be hard, but I can do it. Well, not so much. The dirt has a high proportion of roots in it from all the generations of weeds and the sneaky vine node things that I’m trying to eradicate. The dirt is also hard and compacted. My shovel and I made some progress, but before I try again, I’m buying a hoe.

Anyway, the net result of all that fun is that the pads of my hands under my thumbs are bruised and swollen. I’ve recovered a lot since Sunday, but opening jars remains a problem. So the proletariat, when they seize power, will take one look at my clearly non-worker hands and declare me clearly bourgeois and expendable.

If I’m lucky, the revolution won’t occur before I get the hoe and achieve victory over the dirt.