-----------------------------------------------------
I have maintained that exercise will kill you and that housework is exercise. Everybody laughs.
Well, I just proved it.
Mrs lefty has gone on a cleaning spree, the likes of which have not been seen since before we moved in. In fact, this is our 20th anniversary in the house, so to celebrate, we're cleaning. Ok, be fair, she's cleaning. I'm holding down the couch, which is quite a valuable and respected job. What if the couch were to get away on its own? That would be ugly, and we don't want that sort of ugliness in the place. We prefer other, more ugly, sorts of ugliness.
Mrs lefty is a very patient woman. We've been married for about twenty-some years, so that explains a lot about her patience and tolerance and sense of humor. But I can try the patience of the pope (Judge Judy can make the pope antisemitic) and I have tried (and succeeded) my wife's patience past the breaking point. She very politely 'suggested' that I assist with her Grand Cleaning Scheme. She would not hear of my successes in holding down the couch, not the dangers of it defying gravity and escaping. Now when I say very politely, I mean the sheer volume of her request fired off nuclear alerts in four countries on the other side of the globe. She was even so bold as to ignore my statements about exercise and cleaning.
Realizing that I wanted to sleep in my own bed, I 'decided' to join her in her quest.
One of my first tasks was to get the trash out. Now this is an stunningly mundane and ordinary task. Except in my house. Due to a very peculiar trash can, in a very peculiar house, inhabited by peculiar people and their very peculiar dog, we use peculiar trash bags, which are a bit larger than the can. When I go to pull the bags out, they refuse to come out. If I listen closely I can hear the sound of them openly mocking me. So I do the only thing a man can do - curse and do the Trash Can Dance, where I yank on the bag with one hand and with the other hand I try to pry it loose from the inside, again, using a lot of screaming and cursing. Screaming and cursing, by the way, is the only way to fix computers, cars, and most of the time, houses. Then I put my hand in the other side, dislodging it from the can. I repeat this in two inch increments until the can finally lets go of the bag (complete with final mocking noises). Sometimes this produces a sigh, sometimes I just fall back on my well-padded derriere. Buttocks. Bum. Bottom. Situpon. Ass.
Having accomplished Trash, I got on to Carrying Things. In my wife's condition, it's best that I carry things up and down steps, as some days she can't carry herself up the steps. This particular device needed to be relocated to the basement, as the singing and dancing interrupted midnight chocolate runs. Down the steps I went, unable to see the steps or my feet, when I got the warning to watch the large storage box by the bottom of the steps. We, for some reason, have rather a large quantity of storage boxes, perhaps for storing things. The part that makes this situation unique is that we can never find the correct lid for the box, much like the 3,000 piece Tupperware set we have. While it might hurt to count, I'd say most of the house is in plastic storage boxes in the basement.
Down the steps I went, under my own power, careful to notice the storage box by the bottom of the steps. I was so careful that I performed what I was told was a very amusing, slow-motion, sideways triple lindy onto said storage box. I performed this feat while saving the device I was carrying, as opposed to saving any part of my body, which was apparently unimportant to me at the moment. Oddly enough, I managed to survive this adventure without any screaming at all. In fact, I might perform it again with screaming, just to make sure I got it right the first time.
So I submit to you proof that [exercise = cleaning = injury]. I told you so. Again.
No comments:
Post a Comment