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The Milky Way and the Baby Ruth balanced precariously, stubbornly on the edge of the vending machine shelf, just beyond the reach. One quick push and they would fall, it seemed. A little shake, and they would be within reach.

I’ve seen this before; everyone has. You pay a whole dollar for some crappy snack just to watch it stick in vending-machine limbo, leaving you a little poorer and a lot hungrier.

The last time my snack — a frosted cherry pop-tart — got stuck, I shook the vending machine to get it out. I know, I know, it’s dangerous, the machine might fall on you, I know. But I had to try.

First, I grabbed the machine and shook it. The pop-tart barely moved.

Then, I thrust my shoulder against the machine, over and over until my whole arm hurt. Again, nothing.

So I thought for a minute. I walked around to the side of the machine, bent my knees, and hit it with my hips. The machine wobbled and shook and, after just a few hits, my pop-tart fell down. I thought to myself, Hell ya! I am strong. I am powerful!

My boyfriend was mad.

“That’s a terrible idea!” he yelled as I told him of my accomplishment. His (all-male) friends chimed in with their own admonishments. “What if the machine had fallen on you! That was so stupid!” One of the guys even googled vending machine-related deaths and found that 13 people had died just in the last year.

They yelled back and forth to each other about my “dumb move” for a few minutes, as I silently walked into the kitchen to grab a beer. I wanted to yell back that they didn’t understand. I wasn’t strong enough to topple a vending machine with my arms. My center of gravity is lower than that, in my wide, strong hips. I hit the machine down low, near the bottom, where it’s more stable.

There was no chance that the machine would topple.

They couldn’t understand that.

But today, it wasn’t my cheap snack that was stuck. Sarah and Katie stared as the Milky Way and the Baby Ruth clung to the machine’s shelves, mocking them. Sara and Katie exchanged looks, smiled, and each hit the machine with her hips.

Three hits. That’s all it took. Three hits, and each woman got her candy bar.

They didn’t waste time complaining. They didn’t worry the machine would fall on them. They believed, as I did, in the power of their hips.

After they left, I scoured the bottom of my bag for 75-cents. I dropped each coin into the vending machine, carefully pressed the ‘7’ and the ‘3’ button, and watched as the coils turned. My Milky Way bar moved forward along the shelf.

Then it stopped. My candy bar was stuck.

I was alone in the lounge now. In celebration of Sarah, Katie and the countless women who have gone before me — battling patriarchy with an open heart, strong hips and a stronger will — I rocked my hips into the machine: once, twice, three times.
My candy bar fell.

As I took that first bite of soft, delicious chocolate and caramel, I walked to my computer and started to write this story. With this story came the idea for a blog. Welcome to “The Way Women Do Things,” a blog chronicling every time I am told I do something weird, different, strange or wrong only because I don’t do it like a man.

Oh, and, I only ate half of that candy bar. The rest? The rest is for you. My chocolate reward for using the power and skills I have as a woman (and the blog that spurred from it) are for all people who are told they do it ‘wrong’ only because they do it differently.