A Lesson from Winter on Love, Sex, & Marriage

One benefit of these frigid Manitoba mornings is, you don’t waste time staring into your closet deciding what to wear. You simply wear it all.

As I bundle up for my morning walks to work, I’ve been contemplating the importance of doing things in the proper sequence. Long johns before pants, pants before ski pants. Then boots, parka, hood, scarf. Backpack. Gloves. Big leather mittens over the gloves. It all works together quite nicely to help me survive the brutality known as our weather.

But what if I decided to mix it up one morning because I’m bored with the routine or feeling a bit rebellious? Maybe I want to put my long johns on last, or my boots first. What if I put on my backpack and then tried putting my parka on over that? Or maybe I could put on my big leather mitts first. It could be done—maybe. But by the time I managed to zip my coat and tie my scarf while wearing those bulky mitts, I’d be frustrated to tears. I’d be sweating like a boxer. And my work day would be almost over.

Doing things in the right order applies to so much of life, doesn’t it? No matter how much we might like to skip some steps, especially if they’re hard, life works better in a certain order. We need the education before the good job, and the experience before the better job. We must practice before proficiency comes. We’re required to raise children before we can spoil grandchildren. Buckle up before driving off.

Oh sure, we can try doing things cart-before-the-horse. It might even work, with effort. Instead of washing dishes right after we’ve eaten off them, we could wash them just before we eat. Either way, we’re eating off a clean dish, so what’s the big deal? But seriously, who wants to be scraping off yesterday’s stuck-on spaghetti before you can enjoy tonight’s chicken?

You might succeed at driving to the gas station on a flat tire and then putting air in it. You could try washing a dirty floor before you sweep up the loose dirt. It’s possible to dress first and then take a shower. It’s also really, really dumb.

How about marriage, sex, and having babies? These days, people laugh at the idea of saving sex for marriage. Like it’s downright dumb.

But is it? Have you ever met anyone who waited and regretted it? I haven’t. Present company included. Most things work a whole lot better when done in the right order. Your Creator knows you and put some rules in place that He knows will, if followed, work best for you and the order of your life. Sure, you can change the order and “get along fine.” Lots of people appear to do exactly that.

And lots of people don’t. They carry around emotional scars from past relationships which deeply and negatively affect their present one—wounds they could have avoided by doing things in the order intended by the One who knows them best, loves them most, and understands their heart.

Valentine’s Day is a time to celebrate love and romance and sex. It’s a cold world, friend. Why make your life harder than necessary? Bundle up in the right order.

January Blows

My lone mug

It never fails. You’ve finally got all the Christmas decorations boxed and stacked neatly in the storage space. Half an hour later, you unload the dishwasher and discover one loan holiday mug.

It’s just another one of January’s sneaky little tricks.

A writer friend I admire says January 2nd is her favorite day of the year. Fresh start and all that. Well, that’s fine for her. She’s clever enough to box up Christmas on Boxing Day, after which she reorganizes and cleans her lovely home office, adding something new to breathe freshness into her environment. She doesn’t need to go outside for work because a book publisher is eager for her next story. Besides, she lives in Kansas where spring actually comes when it’s supposed to.

Not that I’m bitter or anything. Our brutal Canadian winters are too character-building for me to become bitter.

2018 got off to a slow start for me. We returned home from Alberta on New Year’s Eve and I began sneezing as I unpacked. By morning, it was a full-on cold. Though due at work on January 2nd, I stayed home for the next three days and dragged myself to work on the 5th looking like something left over from the zombie apocalypse. There, in my foggy-brained state, I proceeded to make enough mistakes to last the year. I’m grateful Darren, our I.T. guy, bailed me out without also chewing me out. 

I can’t complain, really. I wasn’t nearly as sick as some people or for as long.

Here’s the strange thing. By the time I was in the swing of January, with Christmas put away and goals set for the new year, the month should have been at least half over. It wasn’t. And now that it finally is (half over), why does it still loom endlessly before us like an impossible glacier and me without my ice pick?

I could never figure out why January lasts for years and July for mere days when they’re supposed to be the same length. If I had invented the calendar, I’d have divvied January into two short months and called the second one “Tundruary” or “Frostember.” It might not change anything, but at least it would feel like progress.

One of these years, I’ll take my vacation in January and go somewhere warm. I admit I’m enough of a pessimist to think that when I finally save enough money for that once-in-a-lifetime trip, it will rain the entire time. Or an earthquake will strike. Or I’ll come down with Montezuma’s Revenge. Or flights will be delayed and rerouted, so I burn an extra week’s vacation time at O’Hare. Far better to simply stay here, gaze at the stunning photos of gorgeous sunny beaches posted on Facebook by others, and hate them for it.

Did I mention I’m not bitter?

At least the days are growing noticeably longer. Or is that just something we Canadians say to survive?

Confessions of a Party Pooper

For four days each year, hubby and I are the same age. In between these two birthdays last week, our perpetually cheerful eldest called to suggest he bring the family for lunch at our house, followed by an afternoon of sledding if weather permitted. A sort of combined birthday celebration and a great way to wear out three rambunctious boys on a winter Saturday.

Oh. Um. Well. Gee.

I had planned to get some writing done, maybe a little housework. But I knew the correct answer. How long will it be before the boys would rather stick pins in their eyes than go sledding—or do anything, really—with Grandma and Grandpa?

“OK. Sounds good.”

I bought frozen lasagna, a bagged salad, pop-in-the-oven garlic bread, and a bakery cake. They might be descending on my house and pre-empting my nap time, but I saw no need to be a martyr about it with a home-cooked meal.

I saved my martyrdom for the sledding hill. Though the temperature was a balmy -7, the brutal wind threatened to suck my face off and hurl it down the hill without me. I snapped a few pictures of the others and climbed back in the truck where I belonged.

“This is dumb,” I thought after a while. “If Grandpa can slide down the hill and live to do it a second and third time, surely I can go down at least once. It’s probably more fun than it looks.”

It wasn’t.

It's steeper than it appears!

Why anyone would willingly bump down a frozen hill, walloping their tailbone while icy shards stab their eyeballs when they could be curled up by a cozy fake fireplace with a cup of tea and a good book is beyond me. I think I saw my dentures pass me on the way down and I don’t even wear dentures.

I survived my one run and quit while ahead. 

From there, we packed everyone off to the river for a wiener roast. This required a fifteen-minute tramp through knee-deep snow pulling sleds laden with lawn chairs and food. Staggering in fruitless attempts to stay upright, I asked the littlest if we were having fun yet.

“I am,” he said. 

I plowed on, knowing it was the only way for this adventure to be over.

The fire took a while to begin blazing and I fantasized about the hot bath I’d take when we got home. I knew I should be taking a cue from the boys, running around like they were. Instead, I huddled close to the fire, coughing in the smoke and mentally writing the epitaph for my gravestone: Worst. Grandmother. Ever.

 

We packed up and began the long trek back, the boys impressing me with their stamina and good spirits in spite of the cold wind, the snotty noses, and the lack of bathroom facilities. Like an old mare returning to her warm stall, I moved much faster on the return trip.

The boys and their parents piled into their vehicle and waved good-bye. Did they see me as nothing but a big spoil sport? Had I crushed their little hearts by revealing the spineless wimp that I am?

It was on my own ride home that it occurred to me. Though I have many clear and fond memories of my grandmother, I cannot say I ever saw her slide down a toboggan hill. Or tramp through deep snow just for the sake of spending time with me. Or eat a hot dog outdoors in February.

Maybe this day wasn’t about whether or not I had a delightful experience. Maybe it wasn’t  about what I would remember, but about what they would. Maybe it was simply about showing up.

I enjoyed that hot bath as if the water came straight from heaven.