Add this to my list of tragic hero traits: Extraordinary strength.
(For those keeping tally, that's noble birth, moral character, and destined for greatness... we're ignoring the flaw for now, though awkwardity will probably kill me.)
It never ceases to amaze me how I rise to certain occasions when the alternative seems too much trouble. It snowed again last night, a good four to five inches, and the snow has to be cleared somehow. Father, perhaps sensing the long winter still ahead, hurt his toe to get out of shoveling for the rest of the season. House Guest is conveniently absent. And due to the ridiculous amount of snow we've been having, all the gasoline has been used up, thus putting the snow blower out of commission. Father proposed that I call either House Guest to come pick up containers (I would walk them down to the end of the driveway for her), buy gasoline, drop it back off here where I would use the snow blower, or that I shovel the driveway just enough to get one car out to go buy gasoline for the blower. They both seemed too complicated so I chose the alternative: shovel the entire monster by myself. All five inches of wet snow (fluffy, dry texture my foot, bloody meteorologist) on our long, hilly driveway, and that extra little patch on the side. I can't quite feel my arms anymore, but whatever, it's not like I need them for anything.
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