The Little Things

If there’s an obituary written about me, it won’t say “She was a hard worker.” Around here, you’re only considered a hard worker if you grow a big garden, do lots of canning and cooking and yard work, perhaps run a farm, and so on. Physical labour. But repetitive physical labour bores me silly, so it’s not something I sign up for very often.

Mental labour is more interesting to me and I’m willing to put in long hours getting a job done that requires thinking, writing, planning, etc. However, that never counts toward making you a “hard worker,” at least not that I know of. Also, I value my free time and guard it. I avoid busyness; I want time to enjoy life outside of earning money and, of course, to get through the daily chores required to live in relative order and comfort. But I don't want those chores taking up one more moment of my day than is absolutely necessary.

Another word that will never describe me is “longsuffering.” Nosiree. If I don’t like something and have to cope with it repeatedly or for long, I’ll be doing or saying something about it. Some would call that “bitching” or “complaining” but I prefer to describe it as “telling it like it is.”

It's the little things.

So if I am irked with my spouse, for instance, he hears about it. On the flip side, I believe it's important to acknowledge people when they are good at something or have done something kind or thoughtful or generous or smart. 

One morning last week I got into the truck to drive to work and found a sprig of wild rose Scott had put there for me. It’s late for wild roses to be blooming and I appreciated his small gesture of gallantry, of knowing this would please me.

Yesterday he asked if I need to get anything to wear to Gunnar’s wedding. Maybe he was going to suggest we take a shopping trip, or offer to buy me a dress. A lot of men wouldn’t think of that. I don’t need anything, really, so the conversation didn’t go much further except that he gets a few extra “sweetie” points for the question.