Husband is the frost ferns on my window pane, the Bailey's in my coffee, the spring in my step and the fall in my leaves. He knows the songs that make the whole world sing, especially the ones with naughty lyrics. He can surf, roof, cook, perfectly press a shirt, and he once cobbled my shoe.
He's not that good at boredom, though. In retrospect, that's probably just as important a pre-marriage talk to have as are The Big Three:
1. Money (yes, let's make lots)
2. Kids (no thank you, I like my vagina on the inside of my body)
3. Religion (I'm not really into bestiality so coveting asses is something I guess I can agree not to do but I will NEVER give up the wash and wear freedom of poly-cotton blends so I suppose that settles that)
How one handles boredom, or the onset of possible boredom, is an important life skill, like budgeting, or remembering to feed the goldfish. Now, I greet boredom much as I would a treasured friend, with open arms, a glass of wine and my Saturday pants. Boredom is not really the right word, but it comes close to describing that sense one has when there is little to do and lots of time in which to do it. Educators call this feeling August.
I'm told parents call this feeling Sexual Fantasies 1 to 5, in which case I refer rather you languidly to Premarital Talk No. 2.
Husband treats boredom like it's an affront to his dignity. I've never seen a man so upset by the notion of spare time. It's as if he can feel those idle minutes being flayed from his soul by a razor sharp pendulum that whispers "One less, one less, one less..." as it swishes away at his personal Eternity.
It usually happens around 10:30 in the morning on a Saturday, when any other decent person would be in bed or, at least, at brunch. He has walked all the walks, drank all the coffee, and read all the paper he is going to walk, drink, and read for the day. He has sighed and stretched, and prodded the cat's bottom until, perturbed but undeterred, she simply moves her nap from the downstairs sofa to the upstairs living room window.
It happened last Saturday as, watched eagerly by Meeker, and stoically by Jesse and myself, he stood at the kitchen counter and declared that he will now begin to commence to learn skijoring.
I don't know what that is so I looked it up. Not surprisingly, it's Norwegian in origin and therefore 100% hardcore but also fun to say, silly to perform and vastly entertaining to watch. First, you take some cross country skis and grease 'em up real good. Then you take a specialized, highly engineered, hard to find, super complex harness and jam a dog into it, then tether it to your torso. Next, simply strap the skis on your feet and proceed to terrorize your family pet by madly chasing it through the specialized and specifically groomed, highly engineered, hard to find skijoring trails that Manitoba is so famous for having none of.
Anywhere. At all.
After making this declaration in the spirit of Enjoying The Great Outdoors, Husband descended to the basement for the next nine and half hours, during which time the dogs and I enjoyed a delightful Saturday with nothing much to do and lots of time in which to do it. Well, Jesse and I did. Meeker was repeatedly cornered by Husband who was determined to produce his very own skijoring harness because "Amazon.com is for the weak."
To clarify: Husband has decided to combat his boredom by participating in literally the only winter sport that Canadians have never heard of and are therefore completely unequipped to provide services for.
Which brings me to today. Meeker is now the proud owner of an extraordinary, one-of-a-kind, handmade and homeshouted-at skijoring harness. In retina-burning SAR orange. The two of them have been out everyday, combating boredom and ignoring the stares as they swoop through ski parks, confident that the "No Dogs On Groomed Trail" signs are simply an ignorant affectation of the ill-informed and uninitiated in the fine tradition of skijoring.
It IS fun to say.
Skijoring. Skijoring. Skijoring.
