By "independence", I'm not talking about being able to go out with friends anytime I want to or staying out all night if I want to or eating cheesecake for dinner. Not that I ever did those things all that often anyway. I'm talking about letting someone else share the load.
How long is it going to take to sink in? A man lives in my house. A man that knows how to do man things, like fixing stuff, lifting heavy objects, building things, and taking things apart then putting them back together. For 25 years, I was the one doing the man chores, and I'm not used to the fact that I don't need to be so independent anymore.
I don't always have to be the one with the screwdrivers & wrenches when the box says "Some Assembly Required".
I don't have to haul 40 lb. bags of salt home from the hardware store by myself because I'm too stubborn to connect to city water.
Someone here knows how to do wiring & plumbing & construction & assembly & guy stuff!
And he does these things for me because he WANTS to. He LIKES that kind of stuff. He roams around the tool section of Lowe's with the blissful look of Fat Albert at the Golden Corral.
(There's a Tim Taylor in there somewhere.)
Having a hard time getting used to that. I've never really had someone to help with that kind of stuff because they wanted to, so I learned to do it all myself. Well, not all. A lot of things just didn't get done, because I have a hard time asking for help. Anyway, back last summer, he crawled under the house to check out the bathroom pipes. 'Bout did me in. I figured that, because it was such an unpleasant task, he would wipe the dirt off his shirt and say, "Yeah, you know, I don't think this is going to work out. Have a nice life."
But, no. His manly soul was being fed. He stayed.
Oh, and he opens doors for me. Be still my heart.
Someone here knows how to do wiring & plumbing & construction & assembly & guy stuff!
And he does these things for me because he WANTS to. He LIKES that kind of stuff. He roams around the tool section of Lowe's with the blissful look of Fat Albert at the Golden Corral.
(There's a Tim Taylor in there somewhere.)
Having a hard time getting used to that. I've never really had someone to help with that kind of stuff because they wanted to, so I learned to do it all myself. Well, not all. A lot of things just didn't get done, because I have a hard time asking for help. Anyway, back last summer, he crawled under the house to check out the bathroom pipes. 'Bout did me in. I figured that, because it was such an unpleasant task, he would wipe the dirt off his shirt and say, "Yeah, you know, I don't think this is going to work out. Have a nice life."
But, no. His manly soul was being fed. He stayed.
Oh, and he opens doors for me. Be still my heart.
1 comment:
Great blog, Kathy. I enjoyed reading it. Keep writing! Allison
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