Previously, I was pretty sure that Mr. Wonderful was my Knight in Shining Armor.
I have known and loved this man for nearly 20 years. I know as sure as I’m sitting here that he would give me the shirt off his back (because he has), food off his plate (because he has), and all the money he has in the world PLUS his favorite pickup truck (because he has).
I know in my heart he’d give up a kidney if I needed one. Then I asked if I could have a wee bit of parking space in his garage and all bets were off.
Mr. Wonderful and I were hanging out when I mentioned, casual like, that with the coming winter, I might want to park in the barn.
Cue the sound of chirping crickets as he pondered that request. He finally managed to blurt out one word: “Now?” I admit I was confused.
Do I need a reservation? Is there a long line of cars lined up ahead of me? Do I need to call ahead for valet?
Since our home hails from before the widespread adaptation of the automobile, it has no attached garage. This has never bothered Mr. Wonderful or I.
We both grew up in old homes and neither of us has ever in our entire LIVES lived in a house with an attached garage. It’s kind of like central air. We hear that such luxuries exist but since we have never experienced such largesse direct.
I have always just parked in the driveway. This means that rain or shine we hike across the yard to get in the car, often cleaning off a solid foot of snow and waiting upward of 15 minutes for the windshield to thaw enough to drive.
I finally realized the other day, as if it had never occurred to me before, that we have some 10,000 square foot of barn — a good portion of it actually under roof — and I am parking OUTSIDE. What does that say about me other than “dumbbell?”
The kids and I got excited imagining mornings where we didn’t have to scrape off the entire vehicle (burying OURSELVES in snow in the process).
What must it be like to drive down the driveway with more than a tiny little dinner plate sized thawed spot to see out of? Could it be that we would finally find out how the other half lives?
Albeit the half that still has to walk 300 feet out to the get to the garage in the first place?
Baby steps, my friends, baby steps.
Then Mr. Wonderful, a man who heretofore has denied us nothing, put a wrench in our parking plans. Apparently he has to “move some things around” out there. What? Gold bars? Bodies? He has 10,000 square feet.
He can’t shift something a little to the left or right? Then he has to move the tractor. Good! Move the tractor.
In fact, use the tractor to move the OTHER stuff that needs “shifted around.”
Kill two birds with one stone, old man, all I know is I WANT TO PARK INSIDE.
I began to ponder whether there was more to this than meets the eye. Do you think it’s possible that Mr. Wonderful just wants to keep one last bastion of the home front for himself?
Does a man who allows his spouse to make most of the homemaking and decorating decisions in the house not have a right to hold on to a piece of the “man cave” for himself? Not if his wife is getting snowed on he doesn’t.
Please. I now send him early-morning texts “van doors frozen shut. If only we had a BARN to park in.”
Hey, if I have to be froze out, he should feel the chill too. I have also begun to threaten that “Mr. Wonderful” could easily become “Mr. Wonderful with a Side of Selfish.”
It’s wordy but I think I could make it stick.
Meanwhile, he continues to act like I’ve asked for his firstborn in exchange for the parking space, but I already have his firstborn, I know that can’t be it.
I guess I would have had better luck shooting for the kidney.