Friday, April 9, 2010

You Choose


I’m Even Scaring Myself

Tonight I came home from work and began cleaning the house. I admit it needed it. I’m not an idiot. I didn’t need Dean silently dust mopping dirt into a corner each night for the past three nights for me to know it was time to clean.

Cleaning on a Friday might not sound like a big deal, but Friday evenings are sacrosanct to me. I don’t work out on Fridays. I don’t clean on Fridays. I don’t do anything unpleasant on Friday evenings. Fridays are for coming home from work, putting my feet up, and pouring a glass of wine. (Well…... I pour a glass of wine every night…..but I don’t always put my feet up).
However, tomorrow afternoon is hot yoga, plus I have my regular yoga/pilates class in the morning and I know there is no way I can physically survive two yoga classes and a day of house cleaning. I would need to be put on life support afterwards…..if there was even any life left in me. So tonight on my way home from work I thought, “I’ll start cleaning when I get home. (I don’t have a maid like one cough tropical resident I know.) I’ll clean until Dean has dinner ready and then I’ll relax. That way I’ll have a small portion of this gargantuan house cleaned and maybe tomorrow I will be able to finish cleaning AND go to both yoga classes. And if I’m lucky, I will even be able to walk without a cane on Sunday".

So….home I go. I switch into my cleaning outfit----dirty clothes from the floor near the hamper, and hair pulled up in an ugly, tiny ponytail. Before Dean gets home from work and gets dinner ready I have cleaned two bathrooms, our bedroom and I’m close to finishing the hall and entryway. (And this was after my 30 minutes of Spanish!) I would have been further along but he insists on using the “guest” bathroom. We have a perfectly good bathroom in our bedroom. It’s called a Master Bath, but no. He insists on using the “guest” bathroom. Why? Why can’t he soak in the Master bathtub? What’s wrong with scooting down and resting your feet halfway up the wall? If I would have known he planned to actually use that deep tub we installed when we remodeled the guest bathroom I might have had a stronger opinion about the tub choice. And then there’s the toilet. Really? He can’t use the Master Bath toilet? Men are … um … you know … messy. Why do I have to clean two toilets? Doesn’t he hear the heavy sighs and mumbling when I’m in there?

No matter. I was happy to do my part to create a clean and healthy environment for all of us. I was willing to do whatever it took to make it easier for me to attend two yoga classes tomorrow because that will increase my longevity (so I can clean even more toilets).

We had dinner and as I was cleaning up the dishes I innocently asked, “when I’m finished do you want to watch the Netflix movie we have or do you want to catch up on programs we have DVR’d”?



Why HOW Have We Stay Married This Long?

Tonight I came home from work ... blah, blah, blah ... "or do you want to catch up on programs we have DVR’d”?

“Well……(long pause) I thought maybe you’d come with me to an art opening for just half an hour or so."

“No. I don’t want to go. Look at me. I’ve been cleaning. I look like crap. (whiney voice). You should have told me earlier.”

“I didn’t think you’d be cleaning. You never clean on Fridays.” (Dang! Point in his favor.)

“If you would have warned me I wouldn’t have started cleaning. Why didn’t you say something? (long pause) O.K. I’ll go but I’m going to stink. I’ll smell like Mr. Clean”.

Off I go to change clothes. I pull off my now even dirtier and stinkier cleaning garb and pull out my most hated, uncomfortable, constricting and torturous piece of clothing; the first thing I remove after I walk in the door at night…..after my shoes. You know what I mean. The over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder. Or, in my case, the over-the-shoulder-grape raisin-holder. The brassiere. The bra. The thing men don’t have to wear. Second only to giving birth in the “if only you had to…” phrase chanted by women the world over. I have finally learned that no matter how small your girls are, it’s just expected that you wear one. Expected by whom, I’m still not sure…, well, that’s not completely true. I know one person.  My sister likes to remind me that my mom had to tell me I was “not walking down that aisle without wearing a bra". I don’t remember that, but I was probably distracted by trying to listen as my friend explained to me how to apply mascara.

Anyway, that’s how serious I was about going to the art opening tonight. Even though I wasn’t warned. And, okay. I didn’t really want to go. But, you don’t stay married 37 years without learning the fine art of compromise. So I strapped on the bra and put on clothing appropriate for an art opening…………cords and a sweater. I pulled the rubber band out of my pony tail. I considered misting my hair to bring back the curl but decided against it. I didn’t want to give the impression that I cared enough to want to attend more of these events after all. And anyway, when you smell like Mr. Clean, who’s really going to be noticing your hair? I slipped into my shoes, walked out to Dean and announced, “okay. I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To go to the art opening. I said I’d go.”

“You said you'd stink IF you went. I don’t need you to go. I can go by myself.” Dean is off looking at art and I am wearing my stinky, dirty, cleaning clothes that I once again picked up from the floor.  I am not at an art opening.  And best of all, I am more ways than one.◦


abby rose said...

I vote for Post Two, really funny!

Al said...

Okay... you ladies may have to wear a bra and possibly suffer through child birth (not possibly suffer, but possibly give birth), but we men have to live with you women. So there! :p