I am sure I was an Energy Bunny before I met David. Most of my young adult life, I was raising three children pretty much on my own, going to college and holding down an outside job, all of which require much energy.
(Above,a few random shots of front and side beds in my garden)
Years ago, my girl friends and I attended a musical play at Ford’s theater here in DC, entitled, I’m Getting My Act Together and Taking it on the Road. One of the songs, “Maybe I need a Wife,” made each of us formerly married gals laugh. We identified with the overworked wife who decided that she might as well be on her own and cease caring for a “lord and master” or terrible adult infant.
Later, when the group disbanded, one of us moved to Oregon and the rest of us continued on our separate ways here in the DC metro area. I knew some great women in those days, and I have no idea how I lost touch with them. I think most of us remarried, but for a while we were our own collection of Sex and the City girls. It was wonderful.
Those were the heady 1970s of course. The 1980s were wonderful for different reasons. My career peaked and I found David. I think one of the reasons our relationship worked is because I didn’t “need” him, I just loved him.
I had learned by age 40 I could function on my own, I had become independent. By then, I made enough money to pick up the phone and call a repairman for help. All the education and work experience I had accumulated in my young years finally led to a fulfilling and well-paying job.
Now that David is slower than he was a few years back, when I want something done around here, I don’t have to coerce him into doing it. I can call for help or do it myself.
As soon as I do, David decides he should do it.
For example, take gardening. This week, I hired John the horticulturist to do some work for me. After handsome young John came over to work this week, David decided he wants to do more outside work.
Fortunately, yesterday, he only dumped one hanging planter full of potting soil on my head.
“I can do it” he says, taking the pot away from me. Then he tries to lift it with one arm. After it toppled over and spilled its contents, I showed him how I do it: getting my little ladder from the shed and climbing up several steps before I lifted the container.
“Boy you’re strong,” says he.
When we crawled into bed last night each of us could hardly walk. I woke up at 1:30 AM and met him in the hallway returning from the toilet.
“I can walk,” he says merrily. (Mobility is always a surprise at our age.)
“Gardening is good for you, mentally and physically,” he tells me this morning after reading an article on gardening in the Post.
You should start playing tennis again, I told him.