Archive: Two Hundred Words

Left work early. Changed into comfy clothes. Walked Ted amid leaves blustering all around. Emptied the dishwasher, set the table, set out things to cook dinner. Remembered that the TV ban is not in effect until both of us are home, so watched Designed to Sell. Slid from sitting up to lying down without noticing. Snuggled with Ted for as long as he would tolerate it. Got a call from JG that he was leaving his class. Took Ted out. Made dinner and finally got the timing for all of the components right. Kissed JG when he got home. Chatted while he washed the dishes and I made salads. Ate dinner. Discussed the election. Became sentimental at the realization that the CD JG put in was by a group from our honeymoon. Cleaned up from the meal. Nestled into the couch. Sports Illustrated for him; Slanket and a new book for me. After a few chapters, dozed off. Woke up to the sight of JG asleep with Ted on his chest. Agreed with JG’s suggestion to head to bed. Turned off the lights, refilled Ted’s food dish. Didn’t write in my journal or read another page. Slept like a baby.

I should be able to cross things off my to-do list for the house every weekend, even if friends come over at the spur of the moment, or if I am not feeling well.

I should be able to get out of bed without a battle of wills because I managed to do so while I worked toward my 5K.

I should not need to reconcile the disparity between what my life is and how I pictured it would be.

I should be serenely content with what I have and where I am, because I should be confident that my self-assurance does not depend on my location or my surroundings.

I should not be so tired now because my husband’s schedule allows him to pick up some of the slack.

I should work on an advanced degree, because every year that passes without progress brings me closer to betraying what I thought my potential was.

I should write and publish something eloquent, pithy, and resonant every day.

I should assume that my fatigue is psychosomatic, my complaints are ill founded, and my sensitivity is too close to the surface.

I should not struggle with small stressors.

I should be fine.

We wear our football jerseys and climb up to our seats for the pre-game show. Last week’s loss on the road was hard to swallow, but this week should not be the same. The home team strikes first, but we’re tied at halftime. Our team is inconsistent and predictable, and the opponent is not struggling to contain them. In the second half, the visitors score again and again, while our boys rack up turnovers and can’t get a first down. The crowd around us grows hostile. They scream that they want the back-up quarterback and the coach is a liar. We can’t bring ourselves heckle our own men, even though we’re unhappy with the decisions on the field. Instead, we sit, tense and silent, hoping against hope that the team will prove the jeers wrong. Then, we throw an interception late in the game. Another touchdown. The tiny contingent of traveling fans in the far corner of the visitors’ stands is going wild with excitement. The game is as good as over. We leave early to beat the crowd, and we slump down the stairs. The walk to the car is brisk with frustration. Twenty-four uncontested points. Oh, it hurts.

I thought I was prepared for fall. I cooked in bulk, froze in portions, and accepted the double dog-walking duty to ease JG’s first weeks of school. But these days, he comes home exhausted and dejected. The team isn’t playing well. His voice is failing him. He tells me how grateful he is that everything is done, but I sit across the table from a shell of a person.

Inside, I seethe. The weight of the slack I’m picking up pulls me down. It’s hardly gratifying when the beneficiary of my efforts is completely drained by the time I see him, and I’m snappish at the unfairness. I sit on the bed with my arms crossed, annoyed that JG asked me to turn off a light when my hands were full. Next time, I smolder, I’ll let you walk the dog and cook, but I’ll be sure to turn the light off. The only thing on my tongue is venom, and I press my lips together tightly.

I’m already tired of the high road. Today, JG and I exchange e-mails, and I write that I am still prickly, that things are hard for me, too. He gets it, I think.