Happy Saturday!
Saturday really feels delineated from the rest of the week today, it really does.
Working all week with my husband sleeping in and taking it easy is not a piece of cake. It requires me to totally rid myself of anger and resentment, just relax, and be genuinely happy for him.
You might think that’s easy but I’ve been very reflective during the apocalypse. I’m angry a lot. I just keep it inside most of the time.
I’m working on both of those character defects 😎
Anyway, I am up at dawn today not just to write, clean and watch Top Chef but because I’m excited beyond belief. We’re starting the garden today!
Oh, Gary is still trying to get out of it.
Last night we caught the weather forecast right before we went to bed. We have our first sunny, seventy degree weekend since October.
“We should take a drive somewhere good,” Gary said.
I looked up in alarm. Bastard! He knows how much I’ve been yearning for a walk on the beach! Don’t do this to me - I am weak!
A drive “somewhere good” meant Ocean City and boardwalk pizza in my world and Gary was fully aware of that.
But Gary has also lived with me over forty years and caught the look in my face.
“How’s your shoulder, Rob?” he asked instead.
“Fine! Perfect! I’m cured,” I lied.
His eyebrows rose skeptically.
Meanwhile, while I was staring back defiantly, I noticed something for the first time.
“Yo, what’s going on with your face?”
I tried not to giggle.
“Ha! I was wondering when you were going to notice. I’m calling it my corona bush.”
Somehow, without my noticing, my husband has grown a hipster beard during quarantine.
“Is this a new fashion statement?” I asked carefully, not wanting to piss off the guy whom I hired to do my garden.
“Nah, it’s my playoff beard,” he said.
I burst out laughing. I knew exactly what he meant but he told me anyway.
“We would normally be right in the middle of hockey playoffs,” he said. “And all the players grow beards for good luck.”
“You’re a hockey player now?”
“Solidarity, Rob. Solidarity.”
That is so Gary.
But wait a second. The playoffs have another 5-6 weeks to go.
“Sooo...you’re not trimming that thing until the first week of June?” I asked in horror.
“Nah.”
Whew.
“I’m not going to trim it until quarantine is over.”
Oh my God.
Listen, if I start seeing bits of food or birds in that thing, he is so shaving. Or trimming. Or whatever men do to groom facial hair.
I needed to get the conversation back to working on the garden. Don’t ask me why, but if I didn’t have assurance we were going to do it, I wouldn’t be able to sleep.
There’s that anger and resentment seeping in again.
It’s not easy being a woke psychopath.
But seriously, what’s the point of tossing and turning all night imagining different doomsday scenarios when the person next to you is blissfully snoring and may even have every intention of doing the right thing?
So I had to resolve it before we went upstairs, risking a scene before bedtime.
“I’m really excited about this gorgeous weekend,” I said, turning off the lights.
“Me, too.”
Sigh...
I tried again.
“You sleeping in tomorrow or do you want me to wake you?”
“I’ll wake up early myself.”
In what universe was that?
Omg, it was so excruciating.
Fuck it, I went for it.
“I am so excited about tomorrow!” I said. Oy, whose squeaky, high cracking voice was that?
Meanwhile, If he said “What’s tomorrow?” I was going to smack him.
“I know we’re working out back tomorrow, Robin.”
Ooh, he called me Robin. Haha, that’s his angry name for me.
I didn’t take the bait. Instead I sweetly said, “I love you, Gary.”
He grunted in response.
Hahaha, I know he loves me. And I know he will make us a gorgeous garden and enjoy doing it.
The trick is to be patient and supportive, with patient being the key word.
And I admit it, patience is a new concept for me.
But hey, a person can change.
And as I’m also learning, this apocalypse is not just about change but how we react to it.
How come I never learned that’s true in every single aspect of life, not just a pandemic?
It’s literally is the only thing we can control.
And on that note, Happy Saturday.
