On October 15th, I turned thirty-eight years old. My husband will be thirty-eight on February 15th. (What can I say? I'm a cougar.)
Anyway, I don't think thirty-eight is old. Not even a little. I'm aware of my age though. I don't try to behave or dress like a teenager. I'm the mother of two teenagers (and an increasingly surly dog). We don't need any more drama around here.
My husband, however, has not gotten the memo.
Take last night for example. My husband, in years past, has decided that it's a really great idea to stay up all night periodically so he can "reset his internal clock". Which to me sounds like, "blah, blah, blah, whatever". I freaking love to sleep and would do much, much more of it if that were possible for me.
When I woke up at 3am, he wasn't in bed. I figured he had fallen asleep watching television in the bonus room, rolled over, and promptly went back to a really weird dream I was having about "Toddlers and Tiaras".
I woke up again at around 6:30am, and he still wasn't in bed.
I decided that he'd probably fallen sometime in the night, and was likely dead at the bottom of the stairs. This is how my mind works. I jumped up out of my bed and ran to the staircase. He wasn't at the bottom, but Ginger was. She gave me a disgruntled look and rolled over.
I went the bonus room, sure I would find him snoring. He wasn't there either.
I went downstairs and found him in the garage (smoking, he doesn't smoke in the house). All the dishes were clean. Not put away, but clean. The counters were wiped off and his cigarette rolling machine (don't ask) was on the kitchen table.
"I can't believe you never came downstairs to see what I was doing!" he said, a little too brightly.
"Um, what are you doing?"
"I decided that since I slept so much on Saturday night to Sunday that I would just not sleep last night so I could get back on track," he told me. "Did you see I did all the dishes?"
"Because I LOVE my woman!" he told me. "It took me four hours to roll a carton of cigarettes!"
My beloved tends to get a little silly before he had a huge crash. This was worrisome.
"You should do this sometime next week," he was saying. "It really gets your internal clock reset."
"No thank you," I replied. "I love sleeping. Sleeping is my favorite."
He smiled and I went inside to pack up lunches and make sure the teens ate something before trudging off to school and report card day.
After the children were off I went upstairs to retrieve my phone charger and Jason was in the bed, under the covers.
"Are you sleeping?" I asked.
"No!" he said, jovially. "It's cold! I'm just warming up!"
"Hmm." I came back downstairs, to my office and sat down at my computer which I've been using since 6:45am.
After less than ten minutes I heard the most horrific noise.
I went upstairs.
"The people on Royal Drive called Jason," I replied. "They were like, 'Is there a rouge gang of chainsaws cutting down your house?'"
"Whatever. Don't go back to sleep."
I went back to my office and three minutes later:
I went to the top of the stairs and shouted down at the dog,
"GINGER! DAD SAYS HE WASN'T SLEEPING BUT HE WAS SLEEPING! CAN YOU BELIEVE HOW SILLY HE IS? HE'S PROBABLY GOING TO CRASH HIS CAR ON THE WAY TO WORK BECAUSE HE THINKS HE CAN DO STUPID CRAP LIKE HE DID WHEN HE WAS TWENTY!"
"Are you saying I'm old?" I heard from the bedroom.
"No, I'm saying you need to go to work."
He was downstairs shortly after, dressed and smiling,
"Have a great day!"
"You too. Try not to fall asleep at work."
I predict he'll be asleep by 6pm.
I'm too old for this crap.