No Grease Monkey For Me

quick disclaimer: this is not a post dissing mechanics;

 it is a post, however, poking fun at the thought of a wrench in my hand as a career choice.

My friend Beth reminded me of a time in my life about twenty years back. In her blog post I read today, she reminisced about taking the ASVAB test... that test that basically checks a person's compatibility with the armed services, I guess. It made me think of a story that my brother would surely appreciate.

The ASVAB is a strange thing. I'm not the only girl I know who scored higher in the mechanical field than any other section of the test and while for some this may be a well-earned score, for me it made no sense at all. I may come from a long line of drag racing and hot rods, but I am my mother's daughter through and through. I don't mind visiting a garage for small talk or a soda, but I have no desire to hang out and get my fingernails dirty.

A high mechanics score I had, though, and while I was in the midst of processing out through a MEPS station on my way to basic training, I was given a piece of paper that told me exactly what my job was going to be once I made my way out of basic and onto further schooling and a permanent duty station. I called my brother from a pay phone and dutifully recited whatever that big, long fancy-sounding title was (the military loves to jazz things up) and my brother became eerily silent on the phone.

Now, I don't remember what the title was, but I do remember his reaction.

Sis, you HAVE to get out of that.
Why? It sounds pretty neat.
It's a grease monkey, Sis.
A grease monkey?
Yeah, that job puts you down in the missile silos doing maintenance.

And then he laughed.

My sister. A grease monkey in a silo.

Well, needless to say, this girl listened to her brother. I did some quick thinking and some even faster acting. By the time I signed the dotted line and raised my right hand in an oath to my country, my job field had been changed from mechanical to administrative and I had an even fancier title that boiled down to one simple word... supply, and that was fine by me. My last call that day before I boarded a bus to catch a plane was to my dad (I think) and my message was simple.

Tell Tony I'm no longer a grease monkey.
I'm now a glorified pencil pusher.

Thank goodness for big brothers.