There's the lazy shoveler, who unabashedly takes unnecessarily lengthy breaks, flicking through music selections on their phone unhurriedly, deciding which Disney soundtrack, other than Frozen of course, (the horror), is appropriate for such an activity. Then there's a more embarrassing character; the rabid shoveler. This person can hardly be seen amid the clouds of powder they chuck feverishly onto the sides of the driveway.
But of course, the one I wanted to avoid the most was the teenage girl shoveler-the most unsavory type of all. Adorned in pink cold-weather accessories, she struggles amusingly against the tides of snow, all while maintaining her resting bitch-face. One can only assume the sons where unavailable on that particular day, or perhaps her father was too cheap to hire the neighborhood heifer boy who charges 40 bucks for his time. Helpless, weak and stupid. She's all that I avoid.
So, to keep these treacherous little stereotypes from crossing the minds of my watchful neighbors, as my driveway provides a nice backdrop against the windows of those in the cul-de-sac, I manage to become the rabid and the lazy shoveler all at once in an amazing feat of outward appearance; trying to prove my strength by hoisting and shoving ten inches of snow violently aside while not appearing as if I am trying to hard. I am in no hurry, continue watching me neighbor peasants. And yes, I have clearly mastered this shoveling business. I came to the conclusion that all of this serves as larger proof that I think way damn too much.