The other day, I was standing over the sink washing dishes. The dishes had been left over from the night before because after I cooked dinner I needed to fold some laundry, and I decided to just leave them in the sink to soak overnight. While scrubbing the plates, I was making a mental checklist of items I needed to add to the grocery shopping list, so I would have everything I needed to make meals during the following week.
I heard the washing machine ping as it announced that it was finished with the load of towels I had put in earlier that morning. Setting aside the last of the dishes, I dried my hands and prepared to strip the beds and start washing the sheets. Before I could get to the sheets, however, the cat barfed, and I needed to stop and clean up the massive hairball that now occupied the hallway floor.
As I crawled along the floor on my hands and knees, mopping up animal bile with a wad of paper towels, I found myself wondering:
What the f*** happened to my life?
I used to wear a badge and uniform every day. I used to carry a gun. Now, I wear sweats and a t-shirt and carry around an extra pair of socks for when I accidentally step on something wet.
I used to solve people’s problems, protecting lives and property. Now, I try to figure out why the sink won’t drain, or the toilet won’t flush, and I wonder if that funny smell I noticed is coming from the garbage can or if something is rotting in the pantry.
I used to be the “Man of the House.” Now, I’m the houseman.
I’m not complaining because I think the chores are demeaning or because I think the work is beneath me. I mean … I do, but that is not the point. I’m complaining because when I retired I thought I would be allowed to lie down on the couch, turn on the television set, and quietly die. Somebody might turn me over occasionally and put a mirror to my nose. And maybe there would be Jello. I don’t know exactly what I expected, I didn’t really think it through, but I figured that basically I would just melt into the couch cushions and be absorbed by the cloth covered spongy material, never to be seen again.
But that isn’t what happened. Instead, I was told that I needed to find something to occupy my time and give me a reason to get up in the morning and get out of bed. This was a complete betrayal of everything I was promised while I was still working.
My wife told me that maybe taking care of the house and the yard would keep me active. It would help me stay healthy and allow me to live longer.
First of all, living longer is not really an incentive to do yardwork. (What am I living longer for? To do more yardwork?) Second, I’ve discovered in the last eighteen months that I’m really bad at it. I haven’t blown anything up yet, but every time I try to fix something, I discover a new level to my personal incompetence.
Last week, I noticed that several plants were not getting watered. We have drip lines and sprinklers all over the yard to keep everything green, but they have to be checked and maintained regularly or they stop working. I discovered that one of the valve timers had died. I replaced the battery in the timer, but it still would not turn on. I removed the old valve timer completely, planning to order a new one on line to replace it, but when I removed it, the sprinklers turned on and I could not get them to turn back off.
I hurriedly reattached the timer, but the water kept flowing. I had no idea how to turn them off. In a panic, I called a sprinkler repair company and begged them to hurry out to the house and figure out the problem before I needed to pop open a life raft. They agreed to help.
A very nice gentleman came out to the house, looked at the sprinkler system for all of five seconds, then reached down and turned something with his hand. The water immediately shut off. He glanced at me with a look that very clearly stated, “You’re a moron, but it’s idiots like you that keep me in business so I’m not going to say anything out loud.”
He handed me a bill and I mumbled a thank you while staring at the ground, completely unable to maintain further eye contact. He slipped me a business card from out of his shirt pocket and told me to call anytime I needed assistance. He didn’t actually say, “I’ve got the right testicle, feel free to call me when you’re ready for me to come back and get the left one,” but I knew what he meant.
It’s moments like this that make me think my first retirement plan was the one I should have stuck with. Lack of movement and a slow decay start to look very attractive. Unfortunately, I believe it’s too late to follow through with Plan A.
As inviting as a coma on the couch might be, that hairball in the hallway isn’t going to clean up itself.