I just finished running the snowthrower in the driveway. It was a bigger job than I had expected. What I thought was 6-8 inches was actually 12 inches. And when I had looked out the door and had seen The Hunk's truck with its rear against the far garage door (the van being parked in front of the near door) I thought that meant that he had plowed out on the far side of the van. He didn't. He had just backed over the snow and pushed what was in front of him. So there was about four times what I thought I had to do.
There was frozen slush left from the earlier storm still there under the fresh fluff, because the sun never reaches that spot.
For some reason, it was very hard to shift gears on the snowthrower, and I couldn't get it into reverse at all, so every time I wanted to back up, I had to put it into neutral and drag it. In several places, I had to drag it (lift it!) UP a sharp six inch dropoff at the edges of the frozen slush. And since Jay had chosen this monster, it's not a lightweight.
But, I always forget how satisfying it is. I moan and groan, and keep putting it off, I hate the thought of it, and I finally drag myself out to do it, and every time, no matter what happens, I actually, for some perverse reason, enjoy it thoroughly! Even if the snow blows in my face, and my fingers feel like they're going to drop off. It's not just the final satisfaction of a good job well done, I enjoy the doing of it. When I have to walk down to the mailbox to get the mail, I dislike the climb back up the hill, and I huff and puff at the top. And yet when I clear the entire drive myself, I make a minimum of ten trips up and down in the space of an hour or so, some of them pretty fast, and I'm having so much fun I don't even notice!
Odd. I never remember how much I enjoy it. Next time I groan about having to clear the drive, remind me.
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What's with this new (and expensive) product, fruit-flavored water? Didn't we usta call that Kool-Aid?
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