Declaration of independence

I am not a delicate flower.

I was reminded of this last week when my brother came back to Missouri to surprise my mother for her birthday. She was surprised — it was probably the biggest and most successful surprise we’ve been able to pull off, especially considering he had to travel across seven states to get there.

My brother had another motive for his trip home: He was picking up furniture that was at my mother’s while he was on the move. (He’s had more jobs in the past two years than I’ve had, period. Yet he’s the one with the stable career.)

While I helped him load a full-size couch, I asked if he had lined up help for the unloading process. He said he had. While turning the over-sized chair upside-down to fit better in the truck with the couch, I asked if his girlfriend would be helping. She was, after all, part of the motivation for the furniture trip and, I have to imagine, tired of sitting on the floor. He said she would not — “she’s too cute for that.”

And there it was. I tried to convince him that his “too cute” girlfriend would be OK carrying a couple of cushions, but he wasn’t buying it. He had no trouble asking me for help, though.

To be honest, I’m happy with that. Sure, it’s nice to have someone doting once in awhile, but much of that gets smothering. I like my independence. I like knowing that if I want to move the 300 lb. piano across the room, I can put my shoulder into it and move it. (Albeit slowly.)

I like knowing that if I really want something extravagant, I can buy it.

I like knowing that if I want to stay home all day (on my day off — let’s not get too crazy), sit on the couch in my pajamas and tiara, eat strawberries, watch TV and surf the Web on my very own computer, I can do it. (If, of course, I have strawberries.)

I also like knowing that the next time I move, my brother owes me.