Lately, a great many of my friends and family have taken to questioning my work ethic, some have even gone so far as to insinuate I'm lazy. It's not uncommon for one of them—after hearing me chronicle my day—to counter with the phrase, ""Well, some of us actually had real work today,"" as if completing the New York Times crossword puzzle or making two pots of coffee isn't ""real"" work.
They point to my one-shift-per-week part-time job and my four-day weekends and accuse me of having things easy. Now, I concede, on occasion, I am prone to a life of leisure. But as someone who spends so much of his time bringing joy to other people's lives—here's looking at you faithful readers—I feel I deserve it.
Not everyone agrees though, so to clear up the matter I'd like to present two real-life activities, both of which may seem downright relaxing on the surface, but upon further review are actually anything but easy.
Sleeping past noon. This is the one my mom loves to harp on. She'll call at half-past noon and deadpan, ""Oh I didn't wake you up, did I?"" Usually she has, which is a whole different issue, but for now let's stick to the hidden difficulties.
There are several reasons why sleeping late into the day isn't as great as it sounds. You miss half of a day. All the good cartoons are early. And most inconveniently of all, breakfast time is often long-passed by the time I get up. I love breakfast. In my opinion, it's the greatest meal of all. Not only does it boast items like stellar French toast and bacon, but is also completely devoid of any major fish dishes. No other meal—not even teatime or elevenses—can claim that.
Watching eight consecutive hours of television. That's not a set amount, it's usually shorter, but sometimes the situation demands extra stagnation. Take last Sunday for example. Following a disappointing showing in my intramural basketball league, movement was the last thing I wanted. Instead, I hunkered down on the couch with four pillows, one down comforter and a tray full of ice cubes.
Somehow, in the recession of the late '90s when food was short I acquired a taste for ice. It's an addiction I've attempted to kick numerous times, but to no avail. For some reason, when I watch TV, I like to chew ice. It mellows me, especially when I'm watching college basketball and my favorite team can't make a free throw. If you watched the Badgers lose to Ohio State, then you know what I'm talking about. I chewed a lot of ice during that game, the effects of which will certainly catch up with me down the line when I'm a toothless old man.
But Sunday wasn't just about ice cubes and basketball. There were stock cars and Oscars to watch as well. Watched consecutively, these two events—with their contrasting themes of grit and gears versus glitz and glam—got me to wondering just how exactly we came to rule the free world.
Mostly though, I just sat and stared at Jack Nicholson's bulbous, hairless head. He was so ubiquitous I half expected him to explode out of Al Gore's hefty torso and yell, ""Here's Johnny!"" Fortunately he didn't, but the damage was done. My dreams—or nightmares, rather—that night were a hodgepodge of NASCAR wrecks, empty ice cube trays, breakfast salmon, and of course, Nicholson's glimmering dome.
So to anyone who holds the belief I live an easy life, I submit the preceding and beg you not to judge me. Forget walking a mile in my shoes, try spending a day in my sweatpants. You'll never look at relaxation the same way.
