Explaining the lingering stench that hinted of green beans and mashed potatoes

I can remember wondering throughout most of my life what actually constitutes being “lazy.” For example, is it acceptable to lounge around for two days and watch an entire season of Friday Night Lights in 20 hours while neglecting exercise (my own and my canine’s—why does that sound sexual? OMG I need to run.), anything that could be mistaken as real food and all phone calls IF those two days are Saturday and Sunday? What about, thoroughly hypothetical, on a Tuesday and Wednesday?

In the last six years, my sporadic moments of un-motivation have carried an added element of guilt, thanks in part to my dedicated husband. Clayton is the kind of person who simply does what needs to be done, regardless of whether he’s tired or there’s only two minutes left of Modern Family or he just finished an 18 hour on-call shift or the new couch just this instant finally developed the perfect body-hugging indentation. At 2 a.m., when we wake up and groggily realize we’re still on the couch and all the lights in the house are on and the leftovers are still on the stove (oh, and the PG movie we were watching on Showtime at 8 p.m. has evolved into something…slightly different), who has two thumbs and heads straight to bed? This gal. But Clayton? Dollface puts the leftovers in the refrigerator, gets the pots a-soaking, ensures all the door locks are inner-city safe (for realsies…have you been in  downtown Newport News? Good, don’t go adding it to the bucket list, mmkay?) and sets two alarms so that he can wake up in three hours. I am exhausted just typing out that routine. I hate to admit that, after watching my midnight pan-scrubbing husband for almost three years, nothing’s changed about what I think can wait for six, twelve or 1,362 hours (Thanksgiving leftovers in the fridge until February? Anyone? Anyone?).

Sometimes, life just has no sense of urgency to me. Does that smack of a mental health symptom? It shouldn’t. I simply don’t think I’m all that American when it comes to whether or not we should partake of siestas in the middle of the day or keep the pedal glued to the floorboard constantly. I know how to do nothing, and while Clayton’s inability to fully engage in R&R elicits a terribly straining sideways glance, I can still sit on my a-s-s like it’s my j-o-b.

And I’m good with that. I actually think it makes me healthier and more balanced to embrace a good couch campout now and again. Not to start pointing fingers (because I’m still on my exercise ban and that right hand is just so heavy), but don’t you think most people you see frantically rushing through yellow lights and popping blood vessels straining to see if the line is moving at Starbucks could benefit from a big ol’ helping of the lazies? I’m going to consider that, just as soon as I finish season 4 of FNL