His first morning back after a two-week work hitch, and he has to dig me out of another whopping mess, this time quite literally.
Handy Hubby is my white knight, no horse necessary, just some good old-fashioned masculine common sense and a bit of very basic gear: some rope and a come-along. I’m shivering in jeans and my city-girl mittens while he’s dressed appropriately in rain gear and washable work gloves. Within a minute our rubber boots are carrying several pounds of glue-like clay.
He studies the problem, then the environment. I scan with him, but have no clue what he’s considering. He is slow, methodical, patient, cautious – all the characteristics I wish would rub off on me.
I, on the other hand, am excessively curious, impatient, prone to mischief, and periodically irrational, like yesterday, when I chose to drive up a one-lane mud hill, because I wanted to take the scenic route home.
He chooses a large tree for leverage, uses several fancy knots he’s tried many times to teach me to no avail, and with genius ingenuity, according to this geometrically challenged woman, inches the left back tire out of the ditch, then tows the car into the center of the road, leaving not a scratch.
Sometimes I’m a bit ashamed of my old suburban girl ways, she who considered herself a feminist, wore a T-shirt that read “Anything boys can do girls can do better!” and loved singing along to “Sisters are doin’ it for themselves!” Heavens, forgive me please, I was only 12.
I don’t know if it was embarrassment or gratitude or lingering shame in my folly, but as I sat in the car, warm and waiting as the minutes turned into hours, watching him heroically solve my problem, I couldn’t help but tear up. Not only did I not have the physical strength to crank that come-along, I hadn’t any hint of the knowledge or skill to get-r-done.
He came up to the window panting and covered in mud and still found the heart to offer consolation. “Don’t cry, sweets, it’ll be fine.” Which only made the tears fall more freely, much to his confusion.
I felt terrible, but he hadn’t spoken a single reproach and wasn’t even cursing under his breath, the darling.
His only comment on the entire affair came when it was over, as he was gathering up rope and carry-along: “I think I’ll buy a winch.”
My reply? “Of course, dear.”
That looks like geometry!
What about y’all, what has your white knight done for you lately?