A couple of years ago, he ended up picking up a monster snowblower off Craigslist and I couldn't have been happier. Bundling up and schlepping around in the wind and slush isn't fun like it used to be when I was a kid. I love sledding but pushing, lifting and launching heavy, wet snow is some straight up bullshit. That slight incline might not be much to the naked eye, but I eat shit at least once a year on that drive. My ample natural padding doesn't do much in the way of protecting my aging bones. Or my pride. Once that snowblower moved into my garage, I kissed my shoveling days goodbye.
Since he got that beast, he has been trying to show me how to use it. I have always refused. I've never been one to perpetuate gender-specific roles, but I've told him that snow removal can be filed under the category of "man work". It's total bullshit, and even though he has tried to call me on it countless times, I cling to my lame excuse. I do all sorts of "man" shit, from refusing to let him drive on road trips to bee and wasp removal because he is anaphylactically allergic. The truth is I *might* still harbor a little resentment from all those years of hearing him mumble under his breath about my subpar shoveling work and going over the work I just did to clean up my sloppy borders. Thirty-six going on thirteen, right over here.
A couple of weeks ago, the stupid snowblower broke and we got snow. He was at work, and since I'm not a princess, I hauled my ass outside and shoveled. I hurt for two days in places that I quite frankly didn't know existed. You would think that after that, I would be happy to let him show me how to work it when we got it back from the shop. Not so. My pride is a funny thing.
Fast forward to tonight. We are getting a decent amount of snow. It's nothing like the Snowpocalypse of '11, but it's a fair amount and it's heavy. As I passed my night playing Words With Friends and thoroughly enjoying my vegetable soup and grilled cheese induced food coma, he poked his head in from the garage and told me he needed my help outside. Of course he does, I smugly thought, the mighty snowblower does not conquer all. I threw on my coat and boots and headed outside. I scurried my way down the drive to meet him and see what he needed and as I looked up to see him standing with his beloved beast with a shit-eating grin on his face, it struck me.
He tricked me into coming outside to show me how to use that damn snowblower.
He walked me through the gears, how to engage the drive system and the auger, and how to aim where the snow is actually thrown. I had to listen to him because even though I know how the damn thing works, my secondary bullshit reason I've used is that I wouldn't know how to work such a manly machine. That came back to bite me in the ass. I humored him and took the beast for a test drive. I cleared the half of the drive he hadn't done. Then I walked that bad boy down the sidewalk and got the old man's drive too. I'll be honest with you, it was fun. Sean knew I was having a good time and bullied me into admitting it. I did so begrudgingly, true to form. Truth be told, I had so much fun that he'll be lucky to ever use his beloved toy again.
Who's laughing now buddy?