#26. The early bird gets the couch.

(Some) married people like to nap: I spend 40+ hours a week in the northwest corner of our house. My office sits over the garage for prime driveway visibility. You can find me here Monday-Friday, draped in my grandmother’s patchwork quilt. Usually, eating something sugarcoated, caked or frosted.

Incase you didn’t know, the life of a desk-jockey promotes poor posture. By the end of the day, my lanky body feels hunched, curled and cramped from being trapped behind an L-Shape desk. As the hours go by, I lean closer and closer to the screen. This creates inevitable back strain from my arch-to-slouch ratio, and when it comes to shunning the zoom key, my pride is wearing thin. By the end of my wordsmith workday, all I want to do is unwind. Stretch. Relax. The problem is, I don’t have anywhere to kick up my Uggs.

John arrives home from school around 4:30pm. By 4:37pm, you can find him collapsed into the couch facing the flat screen. Usually, he falls asleep to a random movie from the 90s featuring Sigourney Weaver. But all I want to do is unfold into the cushions and watch the nightly news, on E!

There are morning-people. There are night-people. And there are nap-people. John is the latter. I equate waking from a nap with self-inflicted torture. Getting up in the morning is painful. Why would I want to do it more than once per day? Oddly, my Polish/Croatian husband finds afternoon siestas soothing. I understand he needs to rest after school. The toils of teaching are certainly beyond me. He sets his alarm for 5am just so he can have one hour of peace to himself. Me? I roll out of bed 15-30 minutes before work and slip on a clean pair of PJs.

Sometimes for lunch, I float aimlessly around the kitchen, sporadically peering through the mini-blinds like a one-woman neighborhood watch. Most of the calls I get during the day are from elderly telemarketers. Thus, I donated to a few extra organizations in 2009. Judging by the mail, my contact information has found its way onto every charity list. Growing up, I knew the mailman had arrived by my cocker spaniel’s incessant barking. But here in MogLand, it’s the mail-mama’s muffler that provides a mid-afternoon reminder to do two things:

1.) Make the bed
2.) Refill my drink

I rarely leave the house except for church on Sundays. Recently, I’ve noticed that I get extra excited around visitors. This makes me feel like I’m turning into my dog. Oscar greets every guest with utter joy. We practically race to catch the FedEx man. I wish I had my dog’s P.O.V.: He loves everybody, and he also thinks that everybody loves him.

Oscar is my favorite coworker. He doesn’t gossip. (He doesn’t yap at the muffler.) But Godforbid the doorbell rings while I’m on a client call; occasionally I have actual conversations with actual human beings. Otherwise, by the end of the day, my mouth feels like a coffee-stained desert. Not only is the muffler my Pavlovian-signal to venture downstairs for a cold drink. It’s also a precursor for naptime, and knowing I’ll be banished to the second floor for a little while longer.

 

Comments

[maria sometime mingo]

I recommend pilates for your bad posture....even if it's on DVD..so you do not have to leave your house...i leave my house to get away from my kids and husband...it will happen to you one day...