Crazy Stuff I Make My Husband Do
By Kattina Rabdau-Fox
[Introduction from Dave: In a reckless and stupid move, I have decided to let my wife, Kattina, write an occasional column for Globejotting, entitled, “Crazy Stuff I Make My Husband Do.” She introduces her new series today. Then, depending on what she says about me and whether or not we are still married, she might be back on Monday with her tale of dragging me up a Sri Lankan mountain in the middle of the night.]
On our third date Dave admitted, “I am not an outdoorsy person.”
When one receives the message that a potential mate is not outdoorsy, it comes as a shock to the average Seattleite. The concept that someone might not like spending weekends on ragged arêtes, or whitewater kayaking, is a foreign concept that garners sideways glances from people trying to get into the insane parking lot at the REI outdoors store.
As much as I love spending time on mountains and in water, I also appreciated that this guy admitted to not being “outdoorsy.” In the Northwest, that’s akin to sprouting a second head.
I liked Dave because he was funny and a bit dorky, and wasn’t a gear junky in any respect. He was just a kind person who I was growing fond of.
When we were still in the wooing phase of our relationship, Dave entertained the thought of hike. I wasn’t about to lead him into something that would kill him, but I was thinking that this guy was bound to like nature and hiking more than he liked being alone. So I did what any right-minded outdoorsy girl would do; I took him up to Mount Rainier for a casual 14-mile hike to Spray Park, a gigantic meadow on the flank of a volcano. I managed to freak him out about 17 times by telling him stories of people breaking legs near a waterfall on the way up, by getting a gray jay to land on my hand, and by racing back so we wouldn’t have to hike in the dark through bear country.
To his credit, Dave did the entire hike without admitting any discomfort. It didn’t hurt that I appeased him with a stop at a motley roadside dive bar on the way back.
So life with Dave began with a date and progressed to a hike and a dive bar. And while we began to learn about and acknowledge each other’s passions (One of Dave’s is Celtic rock, for which I have only a limited affinity), we developed the understanding that love and togetherness didn’t mean I had to go to every Paperboys concert with him and he didn’t have to climb Mount Saint Helens with me. We would dabble in each other’s passions on occasion, and for that there would be a lot of acknowledgement of the other’s selflessness and most likely one or two alcoholic beverages to help smooth out ruffled feathers.
Fast-forward five years; camping trips, Celtic rock concerts, Yosemite hikes, beer festivals, biking in Vietnam, bagpipe music, Scandinavian history tours, road trips, cabin rentals, geriatric punk band revival tours, and paddling around in kayaks all have come and gone without either of us losing appendages or killing the other. We decided it was time to finally commit.
Now we are hitched, and the gloves are coming off. Now it is time for the big reveal: There is going to be crazy stuff I make my husband do.