The morning after I helped my neighbor shear his sheep, I could barely drag myself out of bed.
All I’d asked of my muscles was a few hours of wrestling mutton. They protested it was too much, but I ignored them.
Now they were getting their revenge.
“Take some ibuprofen,” my wife suggested.
I didn’t say a word. I was too busy watching her.
First, she popped the lid off the blender and headed to the fridge for milk and yogurt. Then she poured the milk, spooned in the yogurt, and returned to the vegetable drawer for a bag of spinach.
I couldn’t help myself.
“What’s going in there?” I asked.
“Broccoli, spinach, carrots, milk, yogurt, and protein powder.”
“It looks awful.”
“But it’s—”
“—good for you,” I finished.
She loaded the blender and hit the switch. It whirred, gurgled, and churned, reducing the ingredients to a concoction as green as moldy bread.
“Good Lord,” I said, “it’s the color of Mr. Yuk!”
“But it’s yummy,” she insisted.
“You need to listen to Mother Nature,” I told her. “She invented ‘yucky’ as a warning that something’s bad for you.”
“What do you know about what’s good for you?” she shot back. “You’re the one who can barely get out of bed.”
She had me there.
“Are you going to do something about it?” she asked.
“Nope,” I said. “Pain is Mother Nature’s way of talking to you. When she speaks, you give her your full attention.”
“So, no ibuprofen?”
“That’d be rude,” I said. “Masking pain is like plugging your ears when someone’s trying to tell you something.”
My wife rolled her eyes. She does that a lot.
It’s our existential conflict. She believes life can be made happier and healthier simply by taking something. I prefer to nurture my misery.
She puts her faith in supplements and remedies. We have an entire cupboard stuffed with weight-loss elixirs, vitamins, and orange vials with child-proof caps. There are bins of bottles promising Vitality, Renewal, and Replenishment. All we’re missing is a big bottle of Redemption.
To me, they’re mostly placebos.
If Mother Nature wanted us popping pills, she’d have given us a pill tree or a pill bush. Come to think of it, she did—apples, blueberries, that sort of thing. Fresh fruit beats a cupboard full of potions any day.
But why argue?
“I’m going for a walk,” I said, pulling on my boots.
“I thought you were sore.”
“I am. Really sore.”
“Then why not take it easy? Listen to Mother Nature.”
“Just because I’m listening,” I said, “doesn’t mean I have to do what she says.”
Almost Iowa 