I love mani-pedis as much as the next woman, trust me. Throw in a facial and a massage and I am in heaven. So as I finish brushing sawdust from my hair and pulling a twig from down my shirt, I have to wonder how wielding a chainsaw and cutting up log after log became routine for me.
When my husband passed away, I assumed a lot of his roles out of what I believed to be necessity at the time. Perhaps I thought I was showing the kids how nothing at all had changed, despite the fact that absolutely everything in our lives had changed. Perhaps I was trying to prove to myself that I could handle everything in my life being tossed into upheaval. Perhaps I am simply too stubborn to ask for help. Perhaps I am too cheap to hire one of the local handyman services. Whatever the reason was, the moment of my I-Am-Superwoman-I-Can-Do-It-All-Alone phase is over.
I hate cutting wood. I do not like vibrating down to my bones as I push a chainsaw into a log. My teeth feel like they are going to shake loose from my skull. Enough already! I surrender! I have done my four years of penance.
Winter is upon us here in the Rocky Mountain foothills, my wood pile is nil, my woodstove needs fuel and you know what? I am going to call one of those men listed in the local paper to deliver the wood to my door. And then I'm going to get a manicure.