I do not get my nails done.
I do not colour my hair.
I hardly even get it cut, truth be told.
I wax my eyebrows myself.
Armpits, too. (51,000 views, toot toot!) (The toot toot was the sound of me and my own horn.)
We don’t have cable.
We don’t even have peasant vision.
We don’t have a cell phone bill (courtesy of Kyle’s work, but still).
I have never purchased anything from Anthropologie. (Sadly, but truly.)
I do get a massage every month, but only because our insurance pays for it.
I don’t buy new clothes very often, and even then I usually shop at thrift stores and clearance racks. (With the exception of my jeans, which I buy full price from the Buckle, but so then of course I only ever buy one pair a year.)
Sometimes we eat out too often, but we always reign it in before it gets outta control.
We don’t have a timeshare.
We don’t drive outrageous vehicles.
When we have kids I probably (as in for sure) won’t get a nanny.
For the most part, we are sensible, down-to-earth folk.
Oh, sure, we like to play along with the best of ’em (Poor Kyle probably more than me, with his techie stuff and his video game stuff and his motor sports stuff and his remote-controlled stuff and his et cetera), but generally speaking, we make level-headed financial decisions.
So then why do I feel so overindulged at the fact that we have officially hired a Snow Man?
No, not Frosty (although my energetic 3 y. o. nephew would think that was boss).
A Snow Man—as in, a man to take care of our snow. A lovely wonderful caring kind and generous man who, for a nominal monthly fee, will come to our house every morning after a heavy snowfall (heavy = anything over 1/2 inch according to Mr. SM), while I am either long gone at school or still toasty in my bed (depending on the day of the week it is), and make it disappear by means of shovel, snow blower, and salt.
This is the stuff that dreams are made of. Some women indulge in mani-pedis. I get a Snow Man.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS.
It means that never again will I have to schlep outside in sub-sub-freezing temps wearing five layers and breaking my back (my Arizona friends wouldn’t believe how bad it hurts, and not just the back, but the whole entire body, to shovel two walkways, front steps, a sidewalk and a driveway), fingers going numb after only a few minutes, breaking a horrific sweat despite the sub-sub-freezing temps, which sweat promptly freezes and forms mini icicles and snow pellets that cling to my face and brow, and finally coming inside after it’s all done just to have to do it again in a few hours or the next day, depending on how hard it’s snowing and/or how shamed I feel when I look out the front window and see my semi-retired over-achieving across-the-street neighbor back at it yet again, and after all of that still having my driveway look like crap because NEWSFLASH: I’m not Canadian and I’m no good at this!
Click here for a comparison of Flanders’s driveway to my own, for an example of how a proper snow removal should look upon completion.
In short, never again will I be that person (video at bottom of link).
Why not just have Poor Kyle do it, you ask?
Simple.
Because he’s not a very good Canadian, apparently, and doesn’t like shoveling snow any more than I do, only worse because when he’s shoveling I feel guilty that I’m not helping him like a good feminist, plus he works really hard all day to support my DDP habits and it’s not very fair to make him work just as hard when he gets home, plus plus he complains and makes me feel even more guilty, so in the end it’s just easier if I do it myself because martyrdom suits me, in case you missed that memo.
And that’s what it really comes down to, doesn’t it? Martyrdom. I have finally shoveled enough tons of snow to feel justified in paying someone else to do it for me. I was not at this point last winter because I had not sacrificed enough last winter. I didn’t have a job, I was only in three classes at school, I had no good reason not to be able to shovel my own damn sidewalk. This winter is a different story, however, and by golly, I’m getting a snow man.
It will save my marriage, too, probably, because if I don’t have to shovel snow then I don’t have to hate the snow, and if I don’t hate the snow then I really don’t have to hate Canada anymore and will finally be able to stop fantasizing about hopping the next flight to Aruba every year from October to approximately June.
Now if only I could hire a full-time driver, I’d finally be able to commit fully to this marriage.
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