After
nearly twenty months
we have finally sold
our home and will be
moving in a week or
so. I say a week or
so, because it isn’t
me that is in charge
of this move. It’s
my wife. The
responsibility is on
her shoulders, hers
alone.
The other morning, I
was wandering around
the kitchen drinking
a cup of coffee and
looking at the
collection of boxes,
paper, tape and
bubble wrap. I made
a comment to my wife
and told her that I
didn’t seem to find
any rhyme or reason
to her method of
packing all of our
stuff. It looked to
me as if she was
working in all of
the rooms at one
time. My method
would be to do one
room and then go to
another.
She placed her hands
on her hips (a sign
I have tried to
avoid ) and told me
in very low and
pleasant tones that
it had been her that
had moved us at any
time in the past and
that she knew what
she was doing and I
should just stay out
of the process. In
other words, go away
and let me do this.
I am woman…I am in
charge. Hear me
roar.
We’ve been together
coming up on
thirty-eight years.
I know the hands on
the hips stance and
have learned that it
generally does not
bring happy tidings.
I also know that she
is correct in saying
that it has been her
that has supervised
our previous moves.
I must have
momentarily lost my
mind when I
questioned her
packing style and
methods. I could
plead insanity and
would certainly win
in a court of law.
I suppose my moment
of temporary
insanity occurred
when I started
thinking about all
of the stuff we have
to move. Years ago,
I would just throw
most of it away, but
with the advent of
E-Bay and
Craigslist, you
don’t want to do
that any longer.
People will pay good
money for some of
the things you used
to sit out by the
curb and pray the
trash guys will load
up. There’s gold in
that thar trash….
So, I’ll stay out of
her way and we’ll
get moved and then
I’ll try and sell
what we don’t want
or can’t use once we
get where we are
going. Makes sense
to me.
One thing I do know,
men should be aware
of their limitations
and not try and
attempt functions
beyond their
abilities. For
example, I don’t
think a man should
ever give birth to a
child. Men are just
not built for this
and should never
attempt to do it
under any
circumstances. I
feel exactly the
same about changing
diapers.
Men are good at
things such as
football, rugby,
baseball, auto
repair and hunting,
but they should not
involve themselves
in activities which
are the domain of
the female sex.
Moving from one
house to another is
clearly well beyond
my personal
capabilities. I was
trying to put
together some boxes
for my wife this
weekend and did not
manage to do them
the way she does.
So, I have failed
box making. My
personal self esteem
was lowered, but I
know that somehow
I’ll manage to get
over it. Obviously
the learning curve
is just too steep
for me to attempt at
this late in the
day. I have to admit
that I’m completely
over my head on this
project. When it
comes to the
operation of the
tape machine, I’m
all thumbs and
cannot seem to get
the thing to work
like she does. I’m
in awe of her
prowess and box
making ability. You
go girl…..
No, I think my role
is to just stand
back and observe her
methods. Perhaps
throw in some words
of encouragement and
bring home some take
out food from the
place down the road.
For me and certainly
for millions of
other men like me,
this is hard for us
to do. To just stand
idly by and do
nothing makes us
feel, well….useless.
But what can we do?
By the time we get
up to speed on the
mysteries of packing
and moving, it’ll be
too late. I suppose
the best we can do
is to just swallow
our pride and watch
in awe how the
process moves along.
As much as I hate
it, I’ll just go to
work and keep out of
her way while she
continues to perform
this incredible
task. I love her
pioneer spirit as
she effortlessly
wraps the dishes and
breakables. I could
have signed her up
for a wagon train to
California when the
gold rush was going
on and she would
have handled it with
ease.
No, I think I’m
totally out of my
league here and
should just keep my
mouth shut and be
quiet, if I know
what’s good for me.
