"Sacrifice"
I am not normally one to complain, but enough is enough. I have long weathered the storms of my wife’s ire when I trek off to the woods in search of game, and for the most part I have weathered those storms quietly. But the time inevitably comes when a man feels like he is being taken for granted and he must stand up on his haunches and fight back. Or at least complain a lot. That time is now.
Because I am an exemplary and sensitive husband, I recognize that part of what makes a marriage thrive is a healthy amount of space, or as the magazines at the check-out counter call it, “me time.” So it is solely with my darling bride’s needs in mind that I seek out as many opportunities as possible to deprive myself of all the comforts of home and my wife’s exquisite company to venture to the primitive wilds of my hunting camp.
I do this not so much for me, but for her. Yes, I hunt and fish and spend time outdoors for my wife.
There. I said it.
Not every wife is so fortunate as to have a husband as thoughtful and unselfish as I. On occasion, however, my wife loses sight of my well-intentioned sacrifices and errantly exhibits frustration and anger when she walks in to find me packing my bags and wiping down my guns. There have even been rare occasions when, after i generously offered to go hunting so she can have some time to herself, my wife's reactions have caused me to instinctively wince and duck the way a deer drops when the arrow leaves the bow. Usually, however, my wife’s attitude towards hunting devolves slowly, like the advance of the seasons.
In late fall when deer season is just getting under way, her demeanor is like an Indian Summer day. She is warm and languid with a welcoming glow akin to an October sunset when I return from a weekend in the woods. As the days grow shorter, however, so does her patience, and by the end of November and early December, the warmth and light fade as quickly as they reach their zenith, while an ever present chill cools the air and stings the skin. By the time the Southern winter is in full swing, there is little warmth and I weather blustery gusts of cold wind and icy rain driven to persuade me to remain indoors rather than venture outside.
As my wife’s patience for my frequent absences during hunting season runs thin, so, too, does my level of understanding of the source of her dissatisfaction. See, I have been told repeatedly that I have a tendency to do things and say things and make certain noises that don’t always please her or warrant her approval. It seems as though I am quite adept at getting on my wife’s nerves. I have not witnessed any of this alleged behavior, but she swears it’s true. Sometimes, she insists, I just flat drive her crazy. So it is only natural for me to presume she could use a break from me every now and then. Knowing this, I selflessly go out of my way to seek out opportunities to get myself out of the house and out of her hair – opportunities like, say, hunting or fishing, or shopping for things I can use, wear, shoot, drive, or navigate while hunting or fishing. Take, for instance, the following example of my altruism.
Every second week of October, I leave home to spend the night before opening day of bow season at the camp. The way I figure it, after having been cooped up with me for the past five-and-a-half months since the close of turkey season, it is only natural to think my beloved is sick to death of my ugly mug and all my bad habits and that she could use a break for a night or two in mid-October. The fact that I do not bow hunt or even own a bow is entirely inconsequential to these proceedings. My only motivation is giving my better half her space. What better way to do that than to trudge off to the camp where, coincidentally, there are six or seven other equally thoughtful and wonderful husbands who have done the same thing for their lucky wives?
Perhaps someday my sacrifice will be appreciated and rewarded. Until that time, I will quietly go about the business of giving and understanding, displaying such sensitivity to my wife’s needs that I lose sense of even my most basic wants. If retreating week after week to the woods to keep the peace and foster domestic tranquility is what it takes, then, by golly, I’ll just have to buck up and take it. My angel deserves no less.
(c) Roger Guilian 2006
Because I am an exemplary and sensitive husband, I recognize that part of what makes a marriage thrive is a healthy amount of space, or as the magazines at the check-out counter call it, “me time.” So it is solely with my darling bride’s needs in mind that I seek out as many opportunities as possible to deprive myself of all the comforts of home and my wife’s exquisite company to venture to the primitive wilds of my hunting camp.
I do this not so much for me, but for her. Yes, I hunt and fish and spend time outdoors for my wife.
There. I said it.
Not every wife is so fortunate as to have a husband as thoughtful and unselfish as I. On occasion, however, my wife loses sight of my well-intentioned sacrifices and errantly exhibits frustration and anger when she walks in to find me packing my bags and wiping down my guns. There have even been rare occasions when, after i generously offered to go hunting so she can have some time to herself, my wife's reactions have caused me to instinctively wince and duck the way a deer drops when the arrow leaves the bow. Usually, however, my wife’s attitude towards hunting devolves slowly, like the advance of the seasons.
In late fall when deer season is just getting under way, her demeanor is like an Indian Summer day. She is warm and languid with a welcoming glow akin to an October sunset when I return from a weekend in the woods. As the days grow shorter, however, so does her patience, and by the end of November and early December, the warmth and light fade as quickly as they reach their zenith, while an ever present chill cools the air and stings the skin. By the time the Southern winter is in full swing, there is little warmth and I weather blustery gusts of cold wind and icy rain driven to persuade me to remain indoors rather than venture outside.
As my wife’s patience for my frequent absences during hunting season runs thin, so, too, does my level of understanding of the source of her dissatisfaction. See, I have been told repeatedly that I have a tendency to do things and say things and make certain noises that don’t always please her or warrant her approval. It seems as though I am quite adept at getting on my wife’s nerves. I have not witnessed any of this alleged behavior, but she swears it’s true. Sometimes, she insists, I just flat drive her crazy. So it is only natural for me to presume she could use a break from me every now and then. Knowing this, I selflessly go out of my way to seek out opportunities to get myself out of the house and out of her hair – opportunities like, say, hunting or fishing, or shopping for things I can use, wear, shoot, drive, or navigate while hunting or fishing. Take, for instance, the following example of my altruism.
Every second week of October, I leave home to spend the night before opening day of bow season at the camp. The way I figure it, after having been cooped up with me for the past five-and-a-half months since the close of turkey season, it is only natural to think my beloved is sick to death of my ugly mug and all my bad habits and that she could use a break for a night or two in mid-October. The fact that I do not bow hunt or even own a bow is entirely inconsequential to these proceedings. My only motivation is giving my better half her space. What better way to do that than to trudge off to the camp where, coincidentally, there are six or seven other equally thoughtful and wonderful husbands who have done the same thing for their lucky wives?
Perhaps someday my sacrifice will be appreciated and rewarded. Until that time, I will quietly go about the business of giving and understanding, displaying such sensitivity to my wife’s needs that I lose sense of even my most basic wants. If retreating week after week to the woods to keep the peace and foster domestic tranquility is what it takes, then, by golly, I’ll just have to buck up and take it. My angel deserves no less.
(c) Roger Guilian 2006
posted by Days Afield Host | 7:17 PM
