By: Pamela P.
I’ve discovered a new illness. It’s been plaguing my husband for at least 6 months. If your other half has it, you’ll recognize it immediately. It’s called: sitting on your ass syndrome. Its effects are deadly.
You will first begin to notice it when the words “You’re not a sperm donor. Get off your ass and help” begin to play on repeat in your head. At least for me, these words swirl around in my mind like a nice thick California cab, coating the sides of my brain and leaving a heavy mark. Except, unlike the soothing properties of a nice vintage red (yes, I know these properties well), these words are enough to make you mad. Certifiably and emotionally mad.
I start my day around 5:30am and by the time I get myself ready, pack his lunch, tidy up the house and get tootsie roll’s morning necessities in line, he begins to move around in bed—at 6:45am. We leave together at 7:15am and by this time I’ve run circles around his sleepy, groggy self. “Here, drink your coffee”—I tell him as I give him his morning fix on the way to the car. This is all for naught, of course. There’s no talking sense to him until he’s on his second meal of the day and somewhat energized by his day’s work. Swirling. It’s happening again.
Work. See, that’s what gets him going. Work. Work. Work. He loves his work. Sometimes I think he loves his work more than he loves us. That’s not true, of course, but yes, he is obsessed with work--so much so that if I don’t remind him to come home, he would stay there—indefinitely. Maybe it’s because he’s a mathematician just lost in the outer space of numbers or maybe, just maybe, he’s trying to avoid helping out around the house. Jerk. Oops, did I say that out loud?
Tootsie roll makes a large mess. So too does hubby. And the three cats. The house gets to be a war zone at times. With toys and cat litter and laundry and dinner and watering the lawn and grocery shopping and random chores, there’s a lot to do. If I stayed at home, this would easily get done. But I don’t. I have a full time job that requires my attention 24/7. This means even at home, I still may have to take a few phone calls or write an email or review a document. It’s my career. I love it. But it does take its toll. And that damn sitting on your ass syndrome doesn’t help.
When I get home, tootsie roll is on my hip and we’re off doing all sorts of gymnastics around the house. We’ve got the routine down pretty good but as with any baby, things can sour really quickly. A tummy owie, hunger, thirst, boredom, just random crankiness—everything can set our routine into a downward spiral. By the time hubby waltzes in around 7:00pm, post work-out, nonetheless, I’m barely breathing and I’ve got a good three hours ‘til tootsie roll is sleeping for good. He, of course, is energized and ready to eat. A shower later, he chirps up, “What’s for dinner?” –while chomping on some snack he’s found in the kitchen. That “what’s for dinner” is usually heard from his throne—the couch. By 7:30pm, his feet are up and the paper’s in front of him, crumbs on the paper and carpet from his snack. Around this time, I’m asking myself, why did I get married? This is when the syndrome is at its worst and I’m ready to just pull the plug. I’ve heard denying feeding usually helps speed up the process….
I’m not sure if there’s a wiring problem up there or what but something’s gotta give. Somewhere out there, there has to be hope that he’ll get home a bit early and take care of a few things before my blood pressure starts boiling. Maybe I’ll just leave him a note: Listen, (*insert explicative*), you’re not eating until you at least take the trash out and scoop the cat litter. Period.
If anyone has any other ideas on how to eradicate this syndrome, I will pay you.