Man oh man, a cold front came through yesterday and dropped our high temp by about 30 degrees. This morning it was cool enough that I could actually go in the shed without dodging wasps--they get active at about 80 degrees, and the hotter the better--so I denimed up, grabbed a broom and got to work. I straightened shelves, picked up all the tools I'd flung in there to avoid the wasps, swept, rearranged. Took me a couple of hours. Just as I was finishing up a wasp or two started a lazy circuit near the ceiling--I'm guessing it was about 75 by then--and seeing how it was also lunchtime, I closed up and came on in. What a great morning!
Many of you may not define a morning spent cleaning the garage as "great", but I love taking care of my home. Let me say that a different way: I love when my home is not chaotic. Since I'm the only one who cares and I don't have the means to hire the necessary laborers, that means I get to do it. So while I may not love the work, I love having done the work.
I feel that way about writing, too. Most of the time I'd rather be doing something else, but once it's done, my satisfaction makes it all good. I guess a lot of worthwhile, fulfilling things are that way, like college and childcare and marriage. Sure, you like the work enough to keep doing it, but the real reason you do it is the payoff. A degree, well-adjusted children, partnership. A novel. A place to put the lawnmower. You know, the payoff.
What's your payoff?