I don’t know about you, but by the time the weekend rolls around, I’m ready for a nap and not much else.
Saturday wore me out without much of a fight. I watched my alma mater’s football game, which required no more energy than the use of my remote-control hand. (Obviously, I don’t have a remote-control hand anymore than you do. There’s an arm in between my brain and my fingers to carry out the functions, meaning my control of the clicker is not remote, but, in fact, direct. What that sentence meant was that it was my right hand, which is the one that operates the remote control device.)
I’m in the communications business, so it hurts when I don’t get my idea across. My point this time is that watching a game was about all I was capable of after a work week. My wife knows my body’s capabilities and doesn’t give me grief for kicking back to enjoy my University of Alma Mater game.
I would do the same for her whenever her alma mater’s game is telecast, but she never sits down for that long. There’s always a chore beckoning to her from the kitchen, or a dish that needs put into the sink, or a couple of items to be added to the grocery list for Thanksgiving. These activities must be done now, even if it’s fourth down and inches.
Thanksgiving! There, in a nutshell, is the whole difference between my wife and me. She always insists on doing too much work each November so all the kids can eat at our house. I say bring on the kids and dial back on the gluttony. This year she claims she won’t run herself ragged, but I know better. She will try to do too much and then will feel like I felt Saturday after watching the game, except that she will deserve feeling bad.
Why not, I ask, let everyone bring a dish or two and you just get a whip and a chair and manage everything from the safety of the living room? Or, better yet, we could take everyone out to a restaurant and find out what it’s like to eat without having three kinds of potatoes and five pie flavors just because Thanksgiving has grown into a gastrointestinal smackdown. I remind her that after my mother’s kids had moved away, she and stragglers in the family would drop in on a truck stop that served pretty good turkey and ham — and there were no dirty dishes to contend with.
This all came up in conversation Saturday night when we went over to daughter Kylie’s to celebrate the birthdays of her boyfriend, Jeff, and his daughter, Anna. After chowing down on their cooking, I reassured my wife she doesn’t have to manage every special meal. It made no impression on her.
Sunday was exhaustion to the nth degree. Daughter Barbie brought over her daughter, Madison, and her son, Mason. Of course, the toddler ran straight into my arms. Several times. Of course, I took him outside to play with the football on the grass. Of course, JoAn enticed him with chunks of chocolate kisses – just to give me a chance to rest, she claimed.
We both have ways to overwork that we enjoy, whether it is keeping the family together for big events or rolling around with one at a time on our lawn. Each is very tiring, but someone has to do it.