I can’t wait. No, I’m not talking about the science project Wife and I have been working on for the past nine months (I’m the too-cool-for-school knucklehead who’s been cracking jokes while their lab partner does all the work), but, to be honest, that’s also getting a tad interminable. Actually, I was referring to the day, hopefully sometime in the not-too-distant future, that our world’s surplus furniture designers wake up from their 100 Year Snore and develop a recliner for adult men that mimics the exact functions of a motorized infant swing. In case you couldn’t tell, I’ve had some time to ponder this unholy marriage of star-crossed comfort because the infant swing we received as a gift from some very thoughtful friends is in my direct line of sight when I am fully reclined in my Craigslist Special recliner. I don’t know it it’s the way this bootleg recliner puts my spine out of alignment, or the fact that the infant swing has a fully working mobile, lullaby and white noise player, and ducky harness that is making me wish I had my very own swing graded for 200 pound adults. Whatever it is, its influence has gripped me with the power of one thousand Motorized Adult Recliner Swings, which, in case you didn’t know, is measured in L.A.F.’s (Lazy Ass Fathers). Sigh. Will I ever know such joy?
This isn’t what it looks like. I know, I know–a grown(ish) man, in his pajamas, eagerly awaiting the drive-thru window to flap open and a large vanilla milkshake to be conveyed into his idling sport utility vehicle does not look “good.” But what if I told you that the milkshake is not for me? What if I told you that the milkshake is for Wife, my pregnant wife? Would that make the cool kids, who just pulled up in their cool kids car looking like a cross between an American Eagle and American Spirit commerical, think I was NOT teetering on the brink of a late-twenties melt-down? Eh, who cares? Truth be told, I’m kind of enjoying this devil-may-go-on-pajama-milkshake-runs attitude. Besides, it’s not like I’m browsing the Metaphysics section at Barnes & Noble. I’m in a drive-thru: the penalty box of the food industry. Why a penalty box? Because you’re enclosed in glass and metal, feeling shame, until the guy in the box next to you gives you your change. Maybe next time I should roll up in my hockey gear for Maximum Analogy Impact. The point is, when you have a pregnant wife waiting on the other end of your errand, you can wear pretty much whatever you want without being scrutinized by strangers. Heck, I could be wearing a tuxedo and not feel embarrassed. Actually, wearing a tuxedo in a drive-thru, alone, would be much, much worse than wearing pajamas. That just screams “Prom Ended Early” or “The Spy Agency Wasn’t Hiring.”
Help me. I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up. That’s because Wife won’t let me get up until I finish another set of leg lifts and hip raises. To be clear, Wife isn’t forcing me to exercise or anything. That would be far too hilarious. No, I have asked Wife to coach me through a beginner’s introduction to pilates. Why? Because Wife has abs of steel, and I have abs of oobleck, which is a non-Newtonian fluid that, at first glance, appears solid, but when touched turns to liquid goop and makes a mess of your kitchen. I’m not suggesting that my abs have the to ability to make your kitchen dirty, but they do have the ability to provide a protective barrier for all the donuts that visit my stomach on a weekly basis. So maybe there’s a correlation in there somewhere? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Wife is barking “Up-Two-Three-Four” while I writhe and grunt and snort my way into a semi-crunch, hold it for an extended period of about three seconds and then come back down to earth like a malfunctioning satellite. And to add insult to injury, Cat is just sitting in his basket on top of the media center shelving watching me struggle like an evil Prison Warden watching a new inmate get “broken in.” I’d like to see Cat try to touch his paws to the ceiling while keep his core tight. On second thought, no I wouldn’t. That would be too weird.