A Humble Warrior

Recently I endured one of those days when the differences between men and women were front and center. I mean, look at this picture. (Click on it for an even better view.) There I am, regal in manliness with my new leaf blower/sucker/mulcher, the epitome of a man protecting and championing his family, and do you think the women in my home grasped the moment? Do you suppose the confirmed reality of being in the presence of a warrior brought respectful appreciation or applause?

Nay.

Even though I instructed my family and Sarah’s mother (visiting for Thanksgiving) on all that could have happened if I hadn’t offered up $60 for a new leaf hog so I could rid the yard of plague inducing debris (leaf rot = creepy critters and microscopic menaces = sick pets and sick people = doctor bills = depression = global warming), the ladies’ Appreciate-O-Meters were on, like, 3 out of 10. One of them even asked straight-faced, “Why don’t you just leave the leaves where they are?”

Wow.

So, I gently and carefully re-visited the threatened horror sequence above (rampaging leaves = the end of the world), thinking repetitive instruction might do the trick. But although she seemed to grasp that the leaves needed to be gone before winter, there was no dawning of how valiant I was in banishing them to a dark, imprisoned, trash bag existence. Even though she knew what awaited those purgatory leaves—the ever-burning fires of the local dump—still there was no gratefulness, no applause, no awe at how those dangerous leaves had been captured.

Covered in the dirt and stench of backyard battle, I steeled myself in the knowledge that while sometimes noble warriors go unnoticed and unappreciated, the pleasure of a clean conscience is it’s own reward.

Right, men?

Amen.