By this time of the year, I am totally finished with flowers. The watering. The deadheading, The sweeping all those leaves off the deck. I am ready to throw it all in the trash, go inside, light a fire, and wait for it to snow.

I am a fair weather gardener. Truth be told, I am not a gardener at all. I like to set up the deck with all the plants and cushions, the frog statuettes, the little bowl of acorns, the citronella candles, and then I like to look out at the scene from inside the house, where there are no flies, the AC is on, and I never get sweaty.

Have you ever watched the House Hunter TV shows? The ones where the finicky buyers insist on “an outdoor space?” These people obviously carry a gene that I don’t have. The gene for liking dirt, UV rays, wasps, picnics, and stepping on pebbles in bare feet. Only children should go out there, where they can ride their scooters and chase one another until they are exhausted and will take long naps.

My husband is an outdoor person. He likes to sit on our deck, in his lawn chair, drinking a beer, thinking. He also likes to roam the neighborhood searching for friendly people to exchange conversations with. He loves to be in the sun. I have to drag him inside at dinner time. Sometimes he is so far away that I have to ring the dinner bell to round him up!

He is a golfer, and he was out on the links a couple of days ago, in 88 degree heat, hitting bogies, getting all sweaty, staying hydrated, and enjoying the hell out of it. He loves places that are “tropical.” He hates air conditioning. He wears a sweatshirt inside all summer, because the thermostat is set at 75 degrees, and he thinks it’s “chilly.” Perhaps some of this is due to the fact that he has not one ounce of body fat to keep him warm, and I have enough of that for two people.

I don’t know why I married him.



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