The Mister just asked me why I was yawning at 8:45 pm. As if he does not realize we have done the work of 25 grown men this weekend. I will sometimes fancy myself a tough girl because when we work The Mister is blind to my delicate femininity and will treat me like one of his workmen. It’s a curse. He figures if I am tough enough to produce a child sans any pain medicine for him, what is a holding up a sidewall? When I completed a marathon it elevated me in his eyes to a whole new level of construction capability. “Come on, be tough, it’s just a door. Look, just lift it with both hands over your head and swing it into the dumpster like this.” I’m not even kidding. This is how our working conversations go down.
The Mister has little tolerance for whining, so when he instructed me to lift the boat and help him carry it to the trailer, yeah you read that right, a b-o-a-t, I bit my lip. After I stumbled over the plastic thingys that held the boat up, I have no idea what they are, all I know is I tripped on them as I struggled to keep up with him, I tried to decide whether to curse or cry. I think it was a combination of both that poured from my mouth….and he laughed…..maybe not a full-fledged laugh, more of a smirky laugh. Enough of a display of humor to infuriate me.
I want to be a rosebud, he thinks I am a workhorse. and then I say the words that probably should have remained unspoken:
“You have no idea how lucky you are. What in the world would you do if you were married to some tiny, frail weakling who was to fragile to lift a finger? Huh? Then what would you do?”
I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say, the conversation ended with him making me laugh, and when he offered to cook supper tonight, I let him. After all, he is secure enough in his masculinity to know his way around the kitchen. And me, well he has taught this sweet girl how to handle a nailgun….but he still keeps his distance.