The gutter guards on our house are in disrepair. The original part of the house is three stories high and  there is no way I am going to mount a hovercraft and go up to fix them. The newer section, and by that I mean fifteen years new, is just one story and I could reach them with a step ladder if I wanted to. Which I don't. 

There are other inhabitants of this home that are better candidates for both climbing and wrangling wire cages whose sole purpose is to convince leaves to go elsewhere. The trouble is they don't really want to either.

My excuse is based on gender and age, even though the case for husbands and college men being more suited to roof work is a bit thin.  As thin as origami paper I suppose. So I lean heavily on the fact that I am close to sixty, and my skills are better suited to less lofty endeavors. Like chickens. And quilts.

Hence we have contracted with a younger male who is more agile and less wobbly on step ladders to come address the problem. He comes this week in fact. I am relieved. 

There are issues that I am sometimes fooled into thinking I am the best person to manage. John's recreational choices. The political opinions of my neighbors. The choices of my adult children. Traffic. The weather. 

But actually those topics fall outside of my purview. Thankfully there is Someone who is more facile at overseeing those arenas, and is willing to do so. This week in fact. 

I am relieved.