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.
