The day I decide to work

I am a hard core lazy person. I am the kind of lazy that can put Association of Laziest to shame. The kind that asks you to remove the fly from my nose, the kind who is happy to stay thirsty if water is not within arm’s reach, the kind who can survive on dry snacks in the kitchen, when the maid is on a furlough. And who doesn’t answer the phone simply because- I am too lazy to move my mouth.

Most days I am happy if I am up by 9.00, maximum by 8.30. In case I need to be up at 7.00 (with a conference call scheduled at 8.00), I am already sleepy as soon as I am up since I slept for a couple of hours only- from 11.00 in the night to 7.00 in the morning, and wonder when will I meet my bed and pillow again. The whole day I keep missing the bed abandoned by me during the sleep infancy stage with a strong feeling of guilt.

But then there are those days which begins with the Sun in the west and ends with a blue moon. That is when I decide to exercise my muscles and limbs. Mostly such a sinister idea is materialised only when I am in a bad temper, after having fought with my husband for no reason whatsoever, and to top it, discovering he is not sorry (doesn’t matter he didn’t find a reason), but then husbands are supposed to say sorry, no matter what. That is when I decide to ignore him and focus on housework.

Invariably if I am dusting, I will end up breaking something. Mumbling over by breath with everyone around to hear “this maid is lazy”, I sweep ferociously with a clean cloth and marvel at how dirty it turned instantaneously, and then realise that the toy airplane from Turkey had crash landed and shattered irrepairably. With a big bang. The whole house rushes in to figure out what disaster I caused, yet again, and then shake their head in despair and go back to their respective chores – lazing on the bed or watching TV. A trifle mollified, I am now more careful and try my better, not to break some of the more expensive things. Breaking stuff does have a placebo effect.

If you haven’t sorted papers for a week, they pile up and crop up anywhere, vague random places, newspaper in the bathroom, dining table full of torn envelopes from which worthless paper bills had evolved. What is the light bill doing here? What offer is this, this is expired, let us throw it. What do I do with this year old bill? This share paper is worthless, or is it? Now where papers are concerned, I bow to the supreme belief that my husband is surely going to find an urgent need for it immediately after I have thrown it away. So invariably, I collate every piece of worthless paper that I find, which is not stuffed inside the cupboard, and dump it in front of my husband relaxing with his Sunday newspaper. Hands on my waist, I tell him- now that I am working, you better do your share too. Which he dare not ignore, for he has experienced I will forever remember and make his holidays hell for the rest of my life. Trust me, he doesn’t even like me removing the week old newspaper because there was some news he wanted to take an image of and add to the whatsapp clutter.

Now with a sense of accomplishment, a few broken artefacts and loose papers collected and piled in front of a bored husband, I relax with a cup of tea.

That blissful day I decide to find issues with everything my maids do. Why is this corner not clean, scrub well, at least do something without my standing on your head! They look at each other and sigh, maybe she has pms, one of those dreaded days when she turns into a fault finder, aka bitch. And then if they decide to ask me for money that day, they have had it. I remind them of every cup they have broken and every cloth which ran colour till they give up. There are days I have gone to an extreme and told them- trust me I am not dependent on you – the biggest lie ever told in the world of lies.

And then maybe I decide to cook too. Now for a person seldom entering the kitchen, who doesn’t like to cook standard meal, I have to plan for something exotic- which my family always eyes with suspicion and put in their mouths with trepidation. The fact that nothing turns out the way it is shown in the you tube video is a smaller problem than the fact that I always manage to cut or burn myself, merely small symbols of the hard work and suffering put in by womankind. I am almost feeling like Padmawat(i). Hopefully it is no longer a taboo to use that i.

With a brave look, I show my husband I have cut my finger and he suitably tch tch es while his eyes ask, why the hell do you enter the kitchen anyway? Stay out of trouble, or did he mean trouble to stay out of kitchen. Now the cut may be a mere scratch, you need to look with a magnifying glass, but ah, the feeling of sacrifice, toil, blood and sweat is what makes the day.

After all the hard work, have you ever observed how noble we feel, as if we have just saved the girl child, and in that Mother Teresa avatar, we always look down our noses upon mere mortals who spend the day reading the Times from one end to another and watching the forever T-20.  And finally end the day by keeping the aforementioned pile of  papers in a bundle and inside a cupboard, to be sorted some time in future. (which is never or till the cupboard overflows and then you throw it away anyway).

Satisfaction of a day well spent. Fight, breaking things, finding faults and migrating waste from one location to another. Now back to laziness till the next such upheaval.

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