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Abstract

e glazing over at your house painting project, completed in a single day.Since then, I’ve done some detective work and learned you are also a farmer. Well — there you go.Whenever I meet someone who grew up on a farm I remember that their idea of a normal day is:Wake up before dawn and trudge outside in all weather conditions, except a tornado. Greet livestock, remembering all their names, then feed them. Eat a hearty breakfast with plenty of gluten and saturated fat. Work the next 12 hours or until the sun disappears, cursing the end of daylight. Eat a hearty dinner of stew.And, finally, talk over tomorrow’s work with your spouse.Settle down for a relaxing evening of: crocheting, knitting, sewing, or memorizing bible verses.In contrast, my normal non-farming day is:Wake up around 7, meditate while voices assail me about my general unworthiness and inability to have a flat stomach. Drink a warm beverage and scroll, scroll, scroll. Spend the next 2 hours composing a limerick. Eat sparingly while a scolding voice admonishes me to avoid gluten, sugar, dairy, and convenience.Settle down a

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round 4:30 pm for some online Mah Jongg.Knowing you, Brad, are a farmer explains 90% of your Tigger-like enthusiasm. In the time I’ve known you, a brief six months, you’ve painted the exterior of your house, refurbished a golf cart, entirely gutted the interior of your house then rebuilt it all, and harvested crops for three months.I suspect you’ve also written a musical.I believe it all comes down to training. From the time you were a pup, you were reared to be on busy at all times, expected to make your own fun, and told you should have something to show for yourself.I, suburban girl, was told to turn off the TV and go outside. I ignored this advice until one day my parents packed me off to college, where I slept in.You learned how to bail hay by age eight, and how to trap small game by ten. I mastered making sculptures out of bath foam before puberty.You were breathing fresh farm air. I was stuck in the backseat of a Dodge Dart sucking in secondhand smoke.I must sign off now. I’m plum tuckered, weary, knackered, and weak as a newly born lamb.Peace Out,Lazy-boned City Gal</article></body>

OPEN LETTERS

An Open Letter to My Overachieving Neighbor

Are you secretly the Energizer Bunny?

Dear Brad,

I was standing at my kitchen window yesterday when you strode by. It was 11 degrees outside. You: in jeans and a light jacket. Me: mouth agape. I clutched my hot beverage and retreated further into the house.

Your high energy is puzzling to me.

If we were both animals, you would be a Jack Russell and I would be a bearskin in front of a roaring fire.

I am reminded of watching the tumbler cheerleaders in CHEER. I feel they are part of a separate species.

Perhaps you are high as a kite on caffeine and optimism? I don’t know, we’ve only talked three times, when you once slowed down between home projects and I stopped during my 15-minute daily schlepp/stroll.

At the time I didn’t realize I should be relentlessly quizzing you on how you are so darned energetic, probably because my eyes were glazing over at your house painting project, completed in a single day.

Since then, I’ve done some detective work and learned you are also a farmer. Well — there you go.

Whenever I meet someone who grew up on a farm I remember that their idea of a normal day is:

Wake up before dawn and trudge outside in all weather conditions, except a tornado. Greet livestock, remembering all their names, then feed them. Eat a hearty breakfast with plenty of gluten and saturated fat. Work the next 12 hours or until the sun disappears, cursing the end of daylight. Eat a hearty dinner of stew.

And, finally, talk over tomorrow’s work with your spouse.

Settle down for a relaxing evening of: crocheting, knitting, sewing, or memorizing bible verses.

In contrast, my normal non-farming day is:

Wake up around 7, meditate while voices assail me about my general unworthiness and inability to have a flat stomach. Drink a warm beverage and scroll, scroll, scroll. Spend the next 2 hours composing a limerick. Eat sparingly while a scolding voice admonishes me to avoid gluten, sugar, dairy, and convenience.

Settle down around 4:30 pm for some online Mah Jongg.

Knowing you, Brad, are a farmer explains 90% of your Tigger-like enthusiasm. In the time I’ve known you, a brief six months, you’ve painted the exterior of your house, refurbished a golf cart, entirely gutted the interior of your house then rebuilt it all, and harvested crops for three months.

I suspect you’ve also written a musical.

I believe it all comes down to training. From the time you were a pup, you were reared to be on busy at all times, expected to make your own fun, and told you should have something to show for yourself.

I, suburban girl, was told to turn off the TV and go outside. I ignored this advice until one day my parents packed me off to college, where I slept in.

You learned how to bail hay by age eight, and how to trap small game by ten. I mastered making sculptures out of bath foam before puberty.

You were breathing fresh farm air. I was stuck in the backseat of a Dodge Dart sucking in secondhand smoke.

I must sign off now. I’m plum tuckered, weary, knackered, and weak as a newly born lamb.

Peace Out,

Lazy-boned City Gal