Why we have weekends apart sometimes.

The mister went out of town for another four-wheeling weekend with his buddies. He has a different Jeep (the man changes Jeeps like I change my socks), but still had a glorious time. They went off-roading, mudding, and rock-crawling.

I did not go. I was invited and I declined with snorting laughter. No, no thank you.

I’m not a girlie girl. I don’t mind getting dirty. (I mind BEING dirty for extended periods of time, but I don’t mind GETTING dirty.) I change my own oil and I know how my engine works. I will dig and garden and shovel shit out of the horse pasture if I have to (see Thanksgiving with the in-laws). I can run a chainsaw, I don’t faint at the sight of blood, and I have a total potty mouth. Sure, I like nice clothes and perfumes that smell good, and I have screamed at the sight of a rodent, but I like to think of myself as well-rounded, easy-going, and up for adventure.

That said, I hate four-wheeling.

Vehicles are for roads. I understand driving off road if it’s necessary for some sort of work thing or hunting, but taking a perfectly good Jeep off of a perfectly good road just for the fun of zipping around the woods and through mudholes makes NO SENSE to me at all.

I don’t like smacking my head against the door, the window, the dashboard, and the frame because we’re ricocheting over a rock field. I don’t like smelling like gasoline and exhaust (though the mister seems to find nothing sexier). I don’t like winching or pushing vehicles when they’re stuck. I don’t like riding in the passenger seat but being unable to knit or read.

Actually, I don’t like being in the car. As long as we’re going somewhere, I can handle it, but I get bored and fidgety easily, so the whole “drive around for the fun of it” thing is lost on me, even more so when I cannot occupy myself with something else because the driving around is accompanied by big hills, loud noises, and unceasing, unpredictable movement.

I don’t like the way welding smells, I hate having to pee while being bounced around, and I have no interest in conquering Horsepower Hill.

I would have been miserable all weekend, and misery for me most often lead to bitchiness, which leads to misery for the mister.

So, while the mister invited me along on his little red-necked adventure, I happily gave up my seat to my younger brother and had myself a little hen weekend, full of pizza and beer with friends, enjoying the last warm weekend of the year, cruising top-down in my dad’s convertible with my friend to our old college stomping grounds, watching whatever I wanted on TV without having to wrestle someone else to the ground for the remote, trying on various first day at the new job outfits, knitting without being mocked, and not having random men appear in the house while I am pants-less.

And on Sunday, when he came back from his weekend, we were both happy, content with how we'd spent our time, and not angry at each other.