“The crowbar is easier,” he says as he walks by. I’m on my knees in the grass happily using the hammer to pull nails out of boards.

We’re fixing fence.

I’m helping.

I’m happy.

Or I was happy until he comes along and says “The crowbar is easier.”

Hmpf.

“I’m fine. The hammer is working just fine,” I grump at him. I keep working.

He shakes his head and goes on to pulling more boards off the posts. But first he can’t resist one more try. “It really is easier. You’re doing it the hard way.”

“Just let me do this.” I grumble even louder. I don’t appreciate being told I’m doing it wrong. He drops the issue. He’s learned by now to let me do it the hard way.

I’m kind of a stubborn lass.

I was so happy.

I was helping.

I don’t like projects, and fixing fence isn’t one of my strongest skills, but I can pull nails out of boards. That’s easy. It’s something I can do that’s productive. I’m working, accomplishing something, not doddering around like some dunderhead who wants to be helpful but is only getting in the way.

Usually on a project like this, I feel like the dunderhead. I am the dunderhead. I don’t know what to do. I want to help, but I don’t want to be in the way. I’m so confused, and having a task that’s keeping me busy and helping,while not being in the way is giving me a great sense of accomplishment.

He just ruined that. Why do husbands always have to burst their wives’ happy little bubbles?

The crowbar is easier. I don’t care. I’ll use the hammer if you don’t mind, please.

So I carry on, pulling nails while the husband and his friend, who was kind enough to help, are moving railroad ties and nailing up boards.

We finish for the day.

Morning comes and we go out and continue where we left off.

I’ve got more nails to pull.

Today I notice the crowbar in the grass near my boards full of nails.

The hammer is there too.

Was that crow bar sitting there so handy yesterday? Probably, but I was too stubborn to notice. I had my hammer and my boards and my nails, and I was happy.

So this morning I look at the crow bar. I look at the hammer. I reach for the hammer, but somehow my hand lands on the crow bar. Okay. I pull the first nail. It slides out smooth as butter. I pull another nail. Same thing.

All right. The crow bar really is easier.

The husband walks by and sees me using the crow bar. He knows better though, and keeps his yap shut.

After a few hours, fencing is done, nails are pulled, debris is cleaned up. We’re pretty proud of ourselves for a job well done.

Later that evening we’re relaxing with a drink and a movie, and he says something like “How did you like using the crow bar?”

Hmpf. Don’t ruin a nice evening by reminding me of how stupidly stubborn I am.

I decide to be a big girl tonight, so I say “Yes. The crow bar IS easier.” He smiles to himself all smug and right.

He does like to be right.

He doesn’t let me forget it.

We now have a running joke between us. Whenever one of us, and by one of us I mean me, is doing something the hard way the other says,”You know, the crow bar is easier.”