Why is it that male hobbies
are so complicated?
Take hunting, for example.
My husband bow hunts.
And every year his sport requires
the placement of various tree stands
throughout the woods and fields.
This morning I was selected to help
him in this endeavor.
"I need your help," he stated in a most
unflattering tone.
Me- the woman he never asks
about placement of the sofa
or bedroom set
or which drawer the silverware
should go in.
Of course, he had to have
a Holder of the Rope,
a Balancer of the Ladder,
a Fetcher of the Tie Straps,
a Eye Out for Coyotes,
and an Opinion that Doesn't Count.
Yes, today-
when the thermometer read
somewhere below freezing,
I bundled up head to toe
and set off on a
tree-stand makeover.
By the time we reached
the woods on the 4-wheeler,
my hands and feet were numb,
my sock cap had blown off,
and my long underwear
were giving me a wedgie.
I was so ready to just pick a tree and say,
"There, that looks good.
We're done.
Let's go."
But, no....
As with everything my husband does,
it had to be methodically,
mathematically, and logically
figured and measured.
His mind works something like this.....
If the arrow travels at X mph
from a height of X ft,
what are the odds that this
particular tree will offer
the proper wind elevation
and aerodynamic boost in order
to meet the designated target
with perfect accuracy?
So, while he was doing
geometry, algebra, and physics
in his head,
do you know what I was thinking?
I was wondering how Paula Deen
got that pie crust to look so flaky
and just where I might have lost
the match to my favorite pair of socks.
Yeah, things like that.
Watching him freeze in thought-
scouring the horizon for the
best specimen to house his stand-
made me wonder why men
are so strange that way.
Why does it have to take so long
and be so difficult?
"Should of brought your laser level,
100 ft tape, and a calculator..." I mumbled,
trying to tease him out of his trance.
"Level would of been nice," he mumbled back,
serious as I've ever seen him.
Did I turn the coffee pot off?
Will the hamburger be thawed by supper?
Did I write down my last deposit in the checkbook?
My mind wandered....
I barely heard him yell at me
to hold the ladder steady
as he climbed to the top
to secure it.
I scrambled to grab it as he
scaled the flimsy metal rungs
to a place far up in the clouds.
That's another thing.
Why so high?
Why not just a few feet above target height
and be happy with that?
I drifted off again into a la-la land
of grocery lists and household chores
and episodes of Prison Break.
I also looked at the amazing winter trees
and little acorns
and listened to the leaves rustle in the wind.
"Hey!" I heard him shout as he began to descend.
"You can move now, it's stable."
As I scraped the frost off my brows,
and chipped an icicle from my left nostril,
I got to thinking about how
women have nice seasonal hobbies
like golf and bridge.
It's always warm and cozy.
They're out a few balls
and a deck of cards now and then-
that's all.
There's no scientific purging of the brain
or excruciating calculations
in order to enjoy simple female sports.
Tonight I unpacked the holiday storage
and asked my husband
if he would help me put the lights on the tree.
"Can't you do anything yourself?" he moaned.
That got me really thinking....
If the boot travels at X mph
from a height of X ft,
what are the odds that this
particular foot
will offer the proper butt kicking
and aerodynamic boost in order
to meet the designated target
with perfect accuracy
and
the sweetest revenge?
