Labor Day Strike

I've decided it: I'm going on strike from Labor Day for the rest of forever.

When I worked at IWU, we worked Labor Day weekend every year. It was the weekend in which the freshmen descended upon the school and I sat in my office answering loan questions to panicked parents and wide-eyed students. One of my favorite things about going to work at WBCL was that we actually got a holiday on Labor Day. One in which I could stay home and sleep and be in my jam jams all day if I wanted.

The first year that Ryan and I were married, the curse of Labor Day returned. He and I had just come home from a glorious week-long cruise in the Caribbean, and I had survived an entire day living in the Miami airport, being kicked out of a hotel lounge by a less-than-compassionate employee, watching a girl do a face plant in a trash can by security, and having my suitcase unpacked and searched by TSA. Oh, and then we flew home in violent storms that graced the plane with the worst turbulence I've ever experienced. All that to come home to a broken hot water heater.

So on our 9 month anniversary, I sat in our living room with severely matted bed-head, coated in airport filth, surrounded by a week's worth of vacation laundry, while Ryan moved the washer and dryer out of our bathroom, replaced the broken hot water heater, and repaired the floor that had been compromised by a slow leak.

Last year was not quite so rough on us. Ryan did have to work both the Saturday before Labor Day, and Labor Day itself, but we didn't have any major mishaps. I guess that was our break.

Speaking of breaking...

...it seems to have descended upon us once again.

Ryan worked all day Saturday again - and I mean ALL. DAY. And then Monday, while according to Facebook, the rest of the world lounged on pool rafts and gobbled up grilled food, we got up before dawn and he kissed me goodbye to go to work. I sat on the couch, pen in hand, working on some editing, when I realized the whine and grunt sounds of a car refusing to start...came from in front of our house. I dared to peek through the window and found Ryan pushing his truck down the road, hopping in to try to start it.

Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr....silence.

I tiptoed out on the porch, in my socks and asked what was wrong. He wasn't sure. Could be the battery. I walked down the steps and with feet sliding around in my green and white socks, I "helped" him push the truck into the driveway, and he transferred all his stuff to my car for his work day.

His work day was longer than any normal work day. Oh yes. On the holiday, he actually worked more hours than a regular day. {And he had a much better attitude about it than I did. When he's all logical like that, I tend to accept the irritation on his behalf. I call it teamwork, but I'm pretty sure that's not the right label.}

He came home from his uber long day and wolfed down his dinner. While I still munched on the last of my sloppy joe, he was elbow-deep in grease and car parts...and he determined it must be the fuel pump. I know nothing about such things, but he assured me it wasn't something he could fix. We'd have to take the truck to the shop.

Sigh.

I'm beginning to think Labor Day hates us.

Ryan's good attitude didn't waver. He put his arm around me and hugged me close, reminding me of all the good things about this mess: it didn't happen while he was driving, leaving him stranded somewhere. It didn't happen in the dead of winter when messing with cars would have been much more uncomfortable. He had worked a holiday, giving us the resources to pay for a repair.

I nodded and swallowed hard, trying to muster up the same easy gratitude he found in the madness.

Every day, I'm grateful for Ryan, but on these kinds of days, I'm extra grateful. He finds the good when I struggle to do so, and he pulls me along until I can get there. While I don't love bad days, I am grateful that in this dance of our marriage, one of us always seems to be able to take the lead...to see the good in the hard. This time it was his turn, and I'm thankful he could find what I could not.

But just for the record, next year I'm hibernating on Labor Day.