Мужчина признается, что проиграл жене в борьбе за выключение света в доме

My wife likes lights and fans. It’s the only explanation for why I always find lights illuminating various areas of our home where, it seems to me, they are not necessary. And fans, it’s a rare day when an exhaust fan is not running in one of our bathrooms or the kitchen. I’m the yin to her yang when it comes to lights and fans. I once had a neighbor ask if we were having electrical issues at our Chanhassen home because the outdoor garage lights kept coming on and going off. It was like a childhood game of light tag. My wife instinctively flips the outdoor lights on once the sun has set, thinking it is a deterrent to would-be thieves. My thought? I am the deterrent – that and the Louisville Slugger that used to lean against the headboard of our bed. I have no qualms swinging for the fence if somebody enters my home without an invitation. That Chanhassen home had three separate lights spaced across the garage fascia and one light near the front door. It was quite easy for me to see when the lights were on. And it was equally easy for my wife to see when they were off. There was a period where she’d pass by the front door and flip the switch up. When I saw that the lights were on and no guests were expected, I’d flip it off. This dance of the lights went on for months, with nary a word spoken about it by either of us. We each became stealthy in our movement to that switch. She’d wait until I’d gone into the bathroom or maybe when I was downstairs watching a ball game. And like a covert operative, she’d glide to the switch and light up the front yard. I knew I’d become lax when I woke up one morning, backed out of the garage on my way to work, and saw that the lights were on. I stared at those glass globes as if Medusa had locked eyes with me and I’d become a clump of rock. How could this have happened? My immediate thought was my dad. When I was a kid, he’d have fits if we left lights on in empty rooms, or turned the thermostat above 68 in the winter. Occasionally, he would even turn off the only floor fan that weakly interrupted the stifling summer heat choking the bedroom air where my four brothers and I were trying to sleep. He was not miserly about energy use; he was dictatorial. In his defense, he was working with a very tight budget. I suppose some of that ultra-conservative approach to energy use had to rub off, but all night light shows just seemed to have crossed a line. So I refortified, doubled down, and upped my sorties to the light switch. Sometimes, I’d see the back of a heel or the wisp of a shirt as she exited the doorway where that light switch was located. I could never catch her in the act. But one look outside confirmed the lights were on, so I’d turn them off. No sooner had I gone back to the bedroom for a book than my invisible wife had already managed to flash those lights back to life. “Who is this woman who can so deftly evade my defensive maneuvers and effortlessly complete her goals of sharing the light?” Eventually, it became apparent she was the superior light soldier, so I was forced to succumb. Today she’s less inclined to leave a light on all night. I like to think it had something to do with my mental prowess when I talked all fancy about power grid strains and shrinking landfills. In reality, I think she discovered the wonder of solar. We now have enough solar lights in our rear patio area to compete with Mystic Lake. I know this because that glow spreads across the veiled blinds of our bedroom window like an eternal full moon. This invasion of light has become so pronounced that light-blocking blinds may be the only defense to a good night’s rest. Oh, the light. So healing. So necessary. So guiding. Yet, so vexing – for me– to control in this house of ours. In the words of Thomas Edison, “I have not failed, I’ve just found 10,000 ways that don’t work.” Keith Anderson is director of news for Adams MultiMedia of East Central Minnesota.