There's A First Time For Everything

Yesterday I did something that I honestly thought I would never do:  I went ice fishing!

The Mr. has been going out ice fishing for years, and every time he invites me to come along.  

And every time I laugh at him.

Those of you who know me well, know that this particular activity includes several of my aversions and fears -- cold, fish, and falling through the ice being the top three.

Well, apparently The Mr. caught  me in a moment of weakness, because I heard myself agreeing to go with him.  What was that all about?  Had I just lost my mind?

Through the course of the evening, I kept wondering why I said I would go.   Was it because I felt bad for always turning him down?  Was it because I wanted to shock him?  Was I hoping he would "owe" me something in return?  Was it because of the book I've been reading that talks about trying new things?  Yes, I'm sure it was because of the book.  Darn that book.  ("The Happiness Project" by Gretchen Rubin)    

Saturday morning came a little too soon, and before I knew it we were on our way to the lake.  I can't begin to tell you how nervous I was when The Mr. proceeded to DRIVE onto the lake with the truck.  We could break the ice and disappear into the lake, never to be seen again.  Do our kids know where we keep our Wills, and where our various bank accounts are located?  Nobody knows we're here -- will they know where to look for our bodies?  Who will tell the Showbiz Kids that they don't need to come to class?  What if the church ladies come into my house (to arrange our funeral) and see how messy my house is? 

As we began unloading our equipment and setting up our little "ice shack", my nerves were still pretty frayed.  With every step in the crusty snow, I was sure I was breaking through the ice.  In an effort to reassure me, The Mr. used the toe of his boot to clear away the top six inches of crust, revealing the hard ice underneath.  I felt a little better.  I just had to have faith that the entire lake looked like that, not just that one little spot.

As we got set up in our little shack -- and I emphasize "little" -- The Mr. positioned my chair right beside one of his fishing holes.  As I carefully settled myself into the chair, I promptly fell through the six inches of crust, confident that I was plummeting to my death.  This, of course, was accompanied by a scream, followed by tears that were apparently a little too close to the surface.

Well, the next few hours went by quite uneventfully.  Since I don't own a fishing license, I could only watch.  Occasionally I got to swivel the cord to the underwater camera.  It wasn't too long before I brought out my book.   Let's see what other "bright ideas" this author can come up with.

The cramped quarters, and my cold feet, soon got the best of me, and I decided to sit in the truck for a few minutes.  Of course it was during that time that The Mr. caught the only fish of the day.  I missed the whole thing.  But I did get a picture.

And I took a picture of myself just to prove that I was actually there.  (Please ignore my appearance.  I didn't feel like sprucing up for the fish.)

Shortly after that we were on our way back home.  When The Mr. asked me what my favorite part of the day was, I joked that it was eating the cookies I brought.  In all honesty, though, I'd have to say my favorite part was just being with The Mr. and watching him participate in a sport that he LOVES.  So, in a sense, I'm glad I went.  

Will I ever go again?  Nope.

In an effort to not feel guilty about that, I now quote from the book I was reading:  

"Just because something is fun for someone 

else doesn't make is fun for me."

Dixie