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Saturday, October 6, 2012
Bobby and I have been decorating for Halloween the past few days. Well, Bobby has been decorating. My job is to stand at the foot of the ladder and catch him if he falls.
Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind.
It's a boring job, standing around and waiting for something to happen that probably isn't going to happen. It's even more boring when more decorations have to be added on each succeeding day because what's out there just isn't enough.
Bobby can be a lot like a Sicilian matriarch preparing Sunday dinner: "Do you think it's enough?" It's never enough.
Today will mark the fourth consecutive day of decorative increase.
And I'll just be standing at the foot of that ladder, the boredom of it all just eating away at my soul.
Another boring job I do is laundry. Why is that? Why is doing laundry boring?
See, all I do is, I lug a hamper down a single flight of stairs, walk about eight yards from my front door to our laundry room, stuff the clothes into a couple of washing machines (none of that separation of whites and colors—I don't do the mommie stuff). Then I wait.
After about a half-hour, the washer has completed its series of cycles, and I take the damp clothes and throw them into a couple of dryers.
And then I wait some more.
I hate all that waiting. The boredom. Why? It's not as if I were exhausting myself with labor.
It's because I hate being tied to a process that demands my active participation at certain intervals but, until those intervals occur, considers my very presence to be unimportant and irrelevant.
I hate that.
Next time, I should lug that hamper over to the river and do my laundry like the settlers did.
At least, I won't be waiting, and I won't feel useless.
Of course, I'll probably throw my back out.