With one, dull, uncooperative blade shaving my legs, I turned to a new one (blade, not leg).  This one had not two but five blades, guaranteeing that the hair missed by the first four would be clipped by the last.  Only, when I was finished, my legs were no smoother.  Perhaps I needed a razor with ten blades since these five had not done their job.  I tried again, shaving slower and more deliberately. No difference.  Scissors would have been more effective.

Clearly, I had gotten ripped off on this razor. I would return it and ask for my money back. Later that morning, I told Dave that they didn’t make razors like they used to. He asked to look at it. “Maybe if you put the blades in the correct way instead of upside down, that will help.” Seriously?  How had I not figured that out?  What was wrong with me?  Dave appreciated that he wasn’t the only one who messed up.

Two hours before, we were to load our mower onto the trailer to take to our friend who would change the oil and filters, sharpen and level the blades.  A team effort.

Hubby, after three tries, found where he had stashed the key that unlocked the cabinet that held the trailer hitch and the tie-downs and after two tries, found the key that unlocked the trailer hitch.  He backed the truck up to the trailer, aided by my keen eye to direct him to reverse in a straight line.  He was masterful as he moved levers and connected hooks and electrical cables to ensure the trailer was properly attached to the trailer hitch. We checked and triple-checked every possibility for the trailer not to come unhinged.  It was a proud moment for my manual man.

We lowered the back ramp so he could ride the mower up onto the trailer.  Imagine my surprise when he exited the garage on our golf cart, the golf cart that runs on batteries and is, last I checked, incapable of cutting a blade of grass.  Perhaps he was just moving it out of the way for the mower?  No. When he came zipping around the corner, heading for the trailer, I realized that he was having a “moment” where not all cylinders were firing.  I admit, I had my own “moment” and thought of letting him load the golf cart, use his tie-downs to anchor it, and drive it to the repair person who would, of course, find this as hysterical as I did.

But as a submissive, Christian woman (ahem), I realized that God might not find that as funny as I did, and since I am to be Dave’s helpmate, I kindly (well, sort of) reminded Hubby that he was driving a golf cart and not a lawnmower. Actually, I cracked up.  And so did he.
And here I was, two hours later, asking for help for a blade I had inserted upside down into the razor handle.  It’s easy at those times to point out each other’s inadequacies, ignoring Ephesians 4:32 (ESV) which tells us to be kind and tenderhearted.  Dave and I know that our brains aren’t what they used to be.  We now help each other with a word or name that escapes us, remind our partner that a tag is out or a zipper down, assist-drive from the passenger seat, repeat our daily schedules (multiple times) and fill each other’s gaps, gaps that are widening each day.

Most of all, we try to find humor in our mess-ups. I think that God appreciates that.  I hope we always find them as funny as we do now.