O Lord, why are we Americans so suspicious of siestas? You recall that even as a young office worker, I sneaked to a back room at noon and closed the drapes to conceal my catching a few winks. Why did I have to hide as if conducting lunchtime drug deals? You’ve never considered napping a sin. OMG, You even advocated a whole day of rest! Amen, Father.
And power to the nappers!
My name is Rachael, and I’m a ballgame-aholic. Sports rivet me to the small screen.
Although I was raised with the Midwestern work ethic. My mother scoffed at grown men who wasted time playing games with balls and sticks. When she not only hid the “TV Guide” and sport sections, but dispatched Dad’s recliner to the roof, our family got the message.
My husband’s family, though equally industrious, considered watching ballgames valid and Indiana University basketball sacred.
Consequently, Hubby doesn’t require many ballgame rationalizations, though he sometimes borrows from my vast collection. One favorite: we accuse each other of working too hard, then prescribe couch-potato bliss “to keep our blood pressures down.”
If this fails, we add respectability with semi-productive activities that don’t detract from the loafing essential to sports viewing.
First, we count the money in our wallets.
Okay, that took four seconds. What next?
We fold Hubby’s brown and black socks. He does this on autopilot, and I rarely bother to separate the two, so we can focus on the game.
Hubby polishes shoes. If the score’s tied in the final minutes, the difference between black and brown also escapes him. But my flip-flops look really shiny.
I consider cleaning my handbag. But what will emerge from its mysterious depths? A penny with two Lincolns might make us rich. However, a 50-year-old photo of an old boyfriend might distract us from the important business at hand.
Picking dead leaves off plants qualifies as a ballgame pastime, unless teams play overtimes. I enjoy the excitement, but bald plants do not.
Manicures, pedicures and ear-hair-trimming sessions also work, though they necessitate similar caution.
Hubby and I sort through cassette tapes and vinyl albums. We cannot bear to part with any of them, so such endeavors provide pleasant diligence without accomplishing anything.
Some couples file tax receipts, answer emails, or alphabetize canned goods while viewing a ballgame. Some have the effrontery to exercise. They even claim this is quality couple time.
Quality time? My husband and I snuggle, cheering our teams, snarling at referees, consoling and/or celebrating with hugs, smooches and buttery popcorn.
After 48-plus years of watching ballgames together, we know how to do quality time.
It’s the best ballgame rationalization ever.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: How do you rationalize watching ballgames?
O Lord, Thank You for these special band members who give time and talent to help make their group one of the best. OMG, You know their grandma, who was never so dedicated, stuck with choirs — who never had to march.
In December, we villainize the Grinch, but he’s an angel of light compared to Germ Gremlins, lurking throughout the winter. Eventually, after counterattacks with antibiotics, chicken soup, vitamins, herbs, oils and oatmeal-mud baths, we conquer illness.
Sort of.
Recovering engenders a dilemma almost as uncomfortable as the sickness. Should I return to work? Or continue to nurse my illness at home with medicine and movies?
Our parents’ generation posed one diagnostic question: “Are you breathing?”
If they detected movement of a Vicks®-coated chest, the response never varied: “Get out of that bed, you lazy bum!”
Resistance might result in an employer dragging the unfortunate to work by the toes, à la J.C. Dithers, the comic strip boss of Dagwood Bumstead.
Sometimes a tough stance works. The Greatest Generation accomplished great things.
However, some of that generation also puffed cigarette smoke into kids’ ears to cure earaches.
Today’s extreme critics of the do-while-dying work ethic declare no one should leave home until she/he passes a germ-detector test and submits to a complete-body Lysol® spray.
Perhaps Homeland Security should include such procedures at airports. Sitting by a living petri dish doesn’t exactly ensure safety. Maybe disposable hazmat helmets might be issued on flights?
If an inventor wanted to make big bucks, he might market preschool hazmat suits. Sleep-deprived parents not only would make him a billionaire, but also their patron saint.
Yet medical experts issue warnings about overprotection, lower immune ability and allergies. Attempts to make the Germ Gremlins extinct can backfire.
So how does a person of the Not-So-Great Generation who rejects Gremlin paranoia make the wussy-or-wise decision?
For once, technology proves helpful. Many can work at home until fully well. Opponents protest that this takes all the fun out of being sick. However, the benefit of wearing ratty bathrobes remains.
Still, we must escape quarantine some time. Recovering from flu, Hubby and I craved our church’s spiritual and social encouragement. After service, though, we dashed out the back door to avoid handshakes and hugs.
Wouldn’t a universal “I’m-almost-recovered” wristband come in handy? Then we wouldn’t have to proclaim from the rooftops that we shouldn’t shake hands. That we’ll admire a new baby from afar. That we’ve recently been slimed by sick grandchildren.
Even at the cost of perpetuating Germ Gremlins, we must avoid avoiding others. In John Steinbeck’s 1960s classic, Travels with Charley, he criticized a restaurant that boasted “food untouched by human hands.” Lives untouched by human hands would allow the Gremlins to wreak even worse havoc than the Grinch. We need each other like we need food and water.
I need hugs every single day. Shun family and friends to stay wussy-well?
Not wise.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: When do you choose to return to work?