"Yeah, I see it. I just can't tell where it's coming from." |
In
the meantime...
Here on
JOY, our division of labor is color-coded somewhat differently than in the traditional pink and blue manner. We have come to use
beige and taupe as our rubric, two tones that we do honor to by the very
consideration of them as colors, however unflattering the context. Taupe, I
have often remarked, is what beige wears to a funeral. Yet, it is their very
odiousness that renders these bland anti-hues the optimal signifiers for how all
work gets apportioned, to wit: jobs we hate (beige) and jobs we hate worse
(taupe). In short, our labor is parsed not by gender, but by relative level of
revulsion. Thus, what is "taupe" for Jane will with luck be only "beige" for me and
vice versa. We each strive to live as taupelessly as possible.
The most
prominent (to us) example is engine repair. We have three or none depending on
whether one tallies by mere existence or actual functionality. Not long after
we first took ourselves seriously about sailing around the world, it dawned on
us that "sailboat" was a bit of a misnomer. But I chose to be
steadfastly undaunted by this revelation because, I believed, I had certain
biological proclivities working in my favor. I refer not to testosterone, but genetics.
A strain
of near-genius runs in my mother's side of the family which manifests in random
and unpredictable ways. My aunt Edith, I am told, was a brilliant pianist. (I
saw her only once when I was four and have no memory of her or her alleged prodigious talent.) In her son, whom I did know, it surfaced in all things mechanical.
Owing to the part of the country from which my mother's family hails, my cousin
was not "Tim," or "Timothy," but "Timmy," (and
sometimes, more unfortunately, "Timbo"). My mother was quite handy as
well, although her actual near-genius lay elsewhere, but Timmy was the true mechanical
adept of the family. He understood, or rather, intuited anything with parts,
as though pieces of machinery revealed their innermost structures to him by virtue of mystical
blueprints borne on their surfaces discernible to him alone.
When our
eagerness was honed to earnestness, that is to say when "engines"
became "Yanmars" and "Westerbekes," I assumed I could summon my inner Timmy and by dint of this
evolutionary bond, experience an epiphanic understanding of diesel
mechanics.
Nope.
In
expectation of activating what, alas, turned out to be a long-severed rung on the
double helix of my genetic strand, we even sent me to a crash course in engine
repair. The legacy of that investment is that routine engine maintenance
remains my beige while engine-and-everything-else repair will continue to bolster the economies
of sundry developing nations.
Conversely,
cat care, which is to say cat "outputs," is the taupiest job on this
boat as far as I'm concerned. I won't do it. My justification is quite simple:
Everyone who wanted to own cats has to clean up after them; everyone who loves
someone who wanted cats can feed them, pet them and, very occasionally, brush
them.
Elsewise:
Cooking -
beige for Ean; taupe for Jane
Cleaning
- ditto
Organizing
- pastel beige for Ean; world of taupe for Jane
Laundry -
beige for Jane; the way Ean does laundry, taupe for Jane
Jane
actually likes the seafarin' stuff like planning routes, tracking weather, navigating,
researching clearing in and out of countries, etc. That's why she's the
captain.
That
pretty much covers it, save for blogging which, technically, I should not even
make mention of, as blogging isn't a job for either of us.
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