While J-Fed didn’t seem to enjoy our rafting adventure, there was one activity he just couldn’t get enough of – gem mining. This is no joke. I knew J-Fed was excited to get up here, but I had no idea that part of his master plan was to get rich. Of course, after 10 years, I should know better than anyone else that J-Fed doesn’t do anything without a reason.
I guess he tipped me off when we walked into the first gem mine. As we approached the entrance, a woman who was probably not a day under 99 looked at the Fedster and asked how she could help him.
“I’m here to retire,” the blockhead said matter-of-factly. I wanted to crawl under a rock and die, a big rock.
And he was serious as a heart attack, which he about gave the old woman. He believed that he was going to strike it rich, right here in the Smoky Mountains. The possibilities were endless – emeralds, rubies, amethysts, sapphires. Of course, it went without saying that J-Fed wouldn’t know a gem if it crawled up his ass and died.
Now, this would prove to be a true test for us. You see one of the biggest conflicts J-Fed and I had throughout our marriage is that I was a realist and he was an idealist. I see a white horse, he sees a unicorn. One can only imagine how often we butt heads. But I was determined not to be the bitch and not to crush his pipedream.
We went to no less than four gem mines and forked out hundreds of dollars for J-Fed to hit pay dirt. Literally. He was digging in the dirt for hours upon hours. For me, it was slow torture. I felt like I was 12 years old again when my parents would drag me from museum to museum. It would irk the hell out of them that I would have my nose stuck in a book the entire time in a state of complete indifference. And to no surprise, it wounded J-Fed to know I didn’t share his passion for gem mining in the least.