The Gift That Keeps On Giving

I'm starting to feel like myself again - slowly, but I'm back - and I was digging up yet another row of "sod" when I realized that I'd never asked the Big Lug to help me do it. As a matter of fact, I ask him to do precious little.

Why? Part is because he works so hard, at a job that stresses him out, while I ... okay, lately my job is worse on me than his is on him, but that's because I've added almost as much piddly crap to my life as they have. Part is because he's not really the handiest person in the world lately; I mean, I'm not great, but he gets impatient then starts to hurry, cut corners, most of you know the drill either because you're just like him or your partner, parent, or kid is. And part is because this is a gift from me to him.

That's the stupidest reason I've ever heard. Actually, all of them are.

First of all, some hard work would relieve his tension: digging, breaking up clay, focusing on getting rocks and wild onion bulbs out, all are now jobs, very cathartic in their zen-ness - mix liberally with the serenity of planting, the creation of beauty and life, the immediacy of accomplishment, and we have a perfect prescription for tranquility.

Secondly, who needs to be handy when the most complicated thing he would do is decide if it's a rock or a stick or a clump of dirt? (No Commander jobs for this stress monkey - only the Drone.)

And third, the Big Dope's numbers are higher across the board - physical labor, sweating like a horse, is the best cure for what ails a body especially when it's blood pressure, sugar, and other nasties.

I'm an idiot. The kind of gift I can give him is not only a secure retirement but a healthy and long-lived one. All I need to do is turn into a work Nazi. Oh, he'll bark and snort and get all cranky with me, but I will dig my heels in and weather the storm. He needs this. He'll get over it - or get used to it.

After all, I can always blame the new witchiness-with-a-B on menopause.