Why They Call It Work

People will tell you that work is, or ought to be, a pleasure, and that's sometimes true. Tying trout flies in front of the TV comes to mind. You do it because you want to, not because you have to, and you work slowly, meticulously, producing delicate feathery nothings, a dozen at a time, all alike, destined to float down a gin-clear stream and be eaten by a beautiful fish amid lushly gorgeous surroundings. Yeah, no problem there.

And then there was cutting the lawn yesterday. Temperature and humidity in the high 90s, thunderstorm looming to the west, but it had to be done. It was not a pleasure—I made myself do it in the spirit of duty and necessity with which, I imagine, a frostbitten mountain climber will take a hunting knife and cut off a couple of his own toes. But it looks nice this morning, I must admit.