We’ve been traveling a lot during the weekends over the summer and this past weekend was the first time in a while we’d decided to stay home and relax. Or more specifically, I decided to stay home and relax, while JB decided to tackle a bunch of projects. He’s been working long hours during the week so he had some backup, like stacking a massive amount of firewood in our recently-build structure.

He worked on this at various times during both Saturday and Sunday, while I pulled up a chair nearby and sat with a book. It wasn’t until late yesterday afternoon, after I’d closed my eyes for a half-nap and idly complained about our September heat wave that I sort of realized I hadn’t bothered to help at all. Like not even once did I pick up a single piece of wood. Meanwhile, he was coated head to foot in splinters and dirt while the woodshed steadily filled with fuel that would help keep my lazy ass warm during the winter.

I apologized, more for not even thinking of helping than the fact that I didn’t actually do so, but then I thought of something a friend had told me recently that I greatly enjoyed. She said she’d had a fling with a hot MMA fighter. Nothing serious, but he had this super-smoking body straight out of a men’s magazine, abs you could play in an old-timey jug band, that kind of thing. She said, “You know how sometimes when you’re sticking to a healthy diet and you’re working out and you just get that tantrumy sort of feeling about it all, like where’s my damn medal for having fucking salad? Linda, he was my medal.” This made me laugh and laugh, and that’s how I ended up justifying not helping with the firewood. I pictured every thankless, cyclical household task that I’m solely responsible for — laundry, vacuuming, grocery shopping, cooking — and I decided having three cords of wood put away while I essentially reclined with a box of bonbons was my medal.

It turns out I was wholly justified in my inactions, too. Later I found a dirt-smeared towel just sort of tossed over the shower curtain rod in the bathroom and when I asked JB about it, he said he was sorry but he didn’t know where to put it. You guys. My HUSBAND didn’t know where to put a SOILED TOWEL. I’m running that stove 24/7 this December just because.

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