I am Married to an outdoorsman. On paper, being married to an outdoorsman isn't so bad. On paper, you always have someone designated to outdoor activities an indoorsy person - like me - would rather skip. Children's camping trips. Grilling. Walking to the pool.

But the day-to-day of being married to an outdoorsman can be a strain. Taxing, even. For example, let's look at the perfectly ordinary task of cleaning. When you are an indoorsman - an innie, if you will - it is reasonable to expect the most intense thing encountered while cleaning is mildew or week old Cheerios.

But as an innie married to an outdoorsman - an outie - it becomes quite common to encounter material way more exotic than shriveled Cheerios.

Do you know that feeling when you're cleaning out the refrigerator and you find a mysterious Styrofoam container that you think is maybe old Chinese takeout but when you open it is actually  nightcrawlers? No? I do. Believe me, you only make that mistake once. I have spent more than a decade refusing to even touch any vessel of unknown provenance that ever lurks in the back of my fridge.

I have stumbled across animal parts in my laundry room cabinet not once but twice in fourteen years of marriage. I feel like it's reasonable to expect to never stumble across animal parts in the laundry room cabinet. Why do animal parts need to be kept in the laundry room cabinet? Don't the animal parts have millions of miles of open space outside to occupy? Do they really need to take up residence next to my Febreeze and Mr. Clean Magic Erasers?

This laundry room cabinet was a great source of discord early in Daughter's life. Apparently, it is a capital crime to keep cleaning solutions of any sort in a cabinet six feet off the ground in a house with an infant incapable of even lifting her own head. But bird wings and deer vertebrae, found on the forest floor and meant for our children to play with, are a-OK. It's like living with a 6-foot-3 human cat - he brings animal remnants home in what I call a misguided attempt to demonstrate affection to his loved ones. I'm good if you just bring me Starbucks. That's all the affectionate display I need.

Home decor, for an outie.

Being married to an outie means any dreams of seeing Hamilton on Broadway are crazy, but the possibility of purchasing a second chest freezer because your spouse has a bear tag and the first chest freezer is full of deer meat is the opposite of crazy.

Did I lose you at "bear tag"? Apologies. When you are an innie married to an outie, the learning curve is impressive and at times overwhelming. Having a "tag" on any animal means you are legally allowed to hunt that animal. Tags are the reason I once had deer heart marinating in wine in my fridge. Tags are why my cutting board was once awash in bits of deer liver and blood. Tags are why I have eaten deer meatballs, deer tenderloin, deer heart. I have also eaten grouse, pheasant, and squirrel, which don't require tags, just a lot of salt and pepper and maybe some bacon.

I know. Me. The animal lover.

Deer vertebral bone. In my house.

The outie life, before I married my outie, was as foreign a concept to me as Star Trek is to the United States Post Office - more on that later - and therefore required me to become steeped in the ways of an outdoorsman. To become familiarized with notions never heretofore considered. To occasionally immerse myself in outie culture.

I feel dirty just looking at it.

Being married to an outie involves a lot of outdoor time. That's an unexpected side effect and is not my favorite. Aside from unwanted time in the sun, being outside means exposure to a lot of what I like to call Eww-y Things. Eww-y Things encompasses anything serpentine - snakes, worms, some sticks. Eww-y Things also includes bugs. Did you know that there are flies that bite? I didn't, until I married an outie. And arachnids. I appreciate all they do vis a vis the bugs, but do they have to look so...so...spidery?

Being outside also means getting hot. Or getting cold. There's limited WiFi outside. There's no bathrooms. Not the good kind, anyway. You know, the kind with actual plumbing and toilet paper and soap.

Being outside at night is no better. There's mosquito coils, to repel the mosquitoes. There's bat boxes, which attract - ugh - bats in case the mosquito coils fail. And when something rustles in the underbrush near your left hand - and something always rustles in the underbrush near your left hand - you don't have the benefit of (harmful) sunlight to determine if it's a bear or a snake or a leopard or what.

That, for the record, never happens inside.

You know what does happen inside? Packages arrive that I, the innie, eagerly tear into thinking it is my latest Amazon order and instead discover it is vials of doe urine.

Just the tip of the iceberg.

Prior to being married to an outie, I refrained from anything as unfitting as poking a worm onto a hook or examining scat to identify the animal of origin. I couldn't even define the word scat and I really didn't care about the animal of origin.

Scat is animal poop, for you innies out there.

The innie/outie marriage means two very different philosophies commingle under a single roof. I become apoplectic when my cable cuts out. I head right for my cable company's app to right the injustice committed against me. Husband becomes apoplectic when open spaces are threatened. He heads right for the computer to contact our congressman and right the injustice committed against the environment.

Entertainment Weekly is my favorite periodical. When the Summer Movie Preview Issue is delivered, I methodically plot movie premieres on the family calendar, along with notations as to who plans on attending. Fair Chase is (one of) Husband's periodicals of choice. Its contents are carefully applied to planned outdoor expeditions. Its contents are also not pornographic, despite what the title may imply and I sometimes think I would almost prefer.

When it is time to give our children gifts, I hit the toy store for the comfortably familiar plastic toys, complete with formaldehyde and hormone disruptors. Husband buys our children stuffed toys - replicas of endangered animals who receive a much needed financial boost because of Husband's purchase.

I don't get it. We need more stuffed animals in our house like the world needs another Spider-Man movie.

What state has our discordant marriage left our children? Well, I'm proud to say that each has a favorite superhero and can navigate Netflix with ease. My singular failure as a parent is that both children prefer Star Wars to Star Trek. I may start a support group to help with the devastation I feel daily.

Devastation, that is, until Son asks to use his Peeing Tree (exactly what you think it is) and Daughter tells her teacher her favorite experience from the summer was shooting and eating a squirrel with her dad. Then the Trek hate doesn't seem so bad, but I think if they said and did those things while wearing their Star Wars tee shirts I would probably fall to the ground crying and vomiting like Scarlett O'Hara after the lone vegetable root destroys her composure and intestines.

If only she'd been inside.

I'm sure you are by now thinking that maybe I have some foibles that Husband must suffer, his own innie/outie battle. I do not have any foibles. Just last night I was emphasizing to Husband the many benefits of living with me.

Husband never has to worry about me usurping his role as the torchbearer on our outdoor excursions with our children. Outside cannot be controlled. Inside can be controlled, and I do an exemplary job. Living in my house means lost possessions are either put back where they belong - you're welcome - or thrown away because I deemed them no longer needed - you're welcome again.

I clear dishes the moment a meal is finished because there is no reason to linger over a completed meal - the TV is anxiously awaiting your company. I organize belongings, and I'll just bet my family never even knew their belongings needed organizing until I stepped up. Well, now their belongings are beautifully arranged and all superfluous items - identified by me - are gone.

Everything in my world sits at right angles. Right angles are glorious. Right angles are one of the sole benefits of arithmetic. Right angles make the world pretty. When Husband comes home, his mail is sitting on the dining room table, squared at a lovely right angle to the table's edge. When he is done perusing his correspondence, I stand at the ready to throw everything away. Junk mail, catalogs, subscription magazines, bills  - all tidily tossed into the recycling. I'm a dream.

I don't just go places, do things. All activities - all - require careful research. I study a few books, assess culinary circumstances, pack sunscreen, plan an appropriate - and appropriately cute - outfit. Maybe attend an accredited college course or online seminar. This is equally true whether the activity is a movie - Entertainment Weekly, remember? - or a trip to California.

Oh, that the rest of the world were like me! This week, at the post office, I purchased the new Star Trek stamps. I have waited six long months for them to be issued. They're finally here. Everyone will be getting Christmas cards with communicator badges and Mr. Spock silhouettes decorating the postage corner of the envelope. Oh happy day.

Until the lady at the counter asked if I needed the stamps for a Star Wars party. A Star Wars party? A Star WARS PARTY?! Who buys Star TREK stamps for a Star WARS party? I don't see any Star Wars  stamps being issued by the post office. And do you know why? DO YOU? Because Star Trek has been around for 50 years, that's why. Because every Star Trek incarnation has been awesome while some of the Star Wars incarnations have Jar Jar Binks.

I bemoaned the postal worker's statement to Husband. Hadn't she paid attention during the New Stamp Issuance Inservice? I really feel like the post office should give primers for each new stamp subject. Shouldn't the postal workers know the details of what they are selling to the American public?

Husband gently pointed out that the post office probably doesn't hold an inservice every time there's a new stamp issued. He suggested I write a letter to the Postmaster General detailing the horrors of my postal visit. Which requires a computer. And WiFi.

Definitely an indoor activity.

The Binge
Here are some of the best outdoor media and supplies. In case you - like me - are an innie married to an outie and would like to better navigate the outdoor world.

Cabela's. This outdoor outfitter has everything you need to insulate yourself when you are forced outdoors. The best item on their website is the Cabela's Multi Tool. I keep one in every purse and glove compartment. I have used it to remove tags, splinters, and self-doubt.

Anything Steven Rinella. Podcast, TV show, books, articles. Pick your poison and learn a bit more about the outdoor life. I suggest beginning with "If You Are What You Eat", "The Case For Responsible Meat Eating", and "How I Fell For My Complete Opposite."

Outside Magazine. A periodical for outdoorsy health nuts who also like beer. This periodical frequently explores outdoor disasters, just in case you need a reminder as to why outside is bad.

Room by Emma Donoghue will make you feel grateful for every moment you get to spend outdoors.