April showers will bring may flowers, but yard work sucks.
Poetic, right? You can see why I don’t write greeting cards. You will also see that the Carpenter and I prove that opposites attract, so long as one of us (that would be me) does not distract the other (absolutely him) from their yard work.
But, I like a challenge. I also like to be a challenge. I’m the one who wants to jump the fence and hit the open road for unknown adventures in the great, wide open. I sit in an office all day long, so come the weekend, I want play – and by play I mean not do yard work. We labour enough. Let’s live a little.
But the Carpenter is a creature of habit, of early mornings and outdoor construction with a to-do list that is longer than the day itself. Somewhere deep inside he believes hard work is equivalent to joy. He believes everything needs to be built or demolished (or both depending on his mood) to the point of almost completion (but never quite done), because this is his idea of fun. Home is a project with a never-ending deadline. Why leave? Silly Carpenter. This is not a true definition of fun and his insistence to prove otherwise usually ends up with him in an Epsom salt bath and significant back pain, too tired to do anything past 7pm. (Yes, kids, this is marriage. Rush in. Live the dream.)
You know I am being sarcastic. I adore my man. I admire his work ethic. I’m happy he has a vision to improve our home and the skill to do it, so long as the budget allows. The downside is the budget never, ever allows. We knew as soon as that winter snow melted, we would have to deal with whatever lay beneath it: an unfinished deck, a roof badly in need of shingles, and patches of grass that refuse to grow. Ah spring, the rude awakening.
This is why I asked the Carpenter recently if he ever wished we lived in a condo. “Imagine: no gardening, shovelling snow or cutting the grass,” I said. “Imagine the ability to spend your weekends freely doing whatever you wanted. Road trips. Vacations. Naps. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
It was a moment of temporary insanity, I admit, which explains why he looked at me as if I’d just suggested we sell the house, buy a condo, skip the chores and live a little (see above). Crazy talk from a crazy woman. His eyes said it all.
“Who are you?”
Silly me. What was I thinking? He could never be happy without a yard to fuss over and I will always find clever ways to distract him, if only temporarily. He is a home-body and I’m a restless wanderer. Somewhere in this we’ve discovered what makes us opposite also gives us balance.
Don’t ask me how, but it works. We get stuff done in our own way, in our own time, and maybe that is the point. When I win the lottery, I am buying him all the top soil his little heart desires, then I am heading to the beach. Opposites. Bliss.