Lazy Girl

I was staring at the coffeemaker this morning, wishing it were the weekend. Not because I had to get up at some ungodly hour to work, but because on the weekends, Billy-Bob fills my coffeemaker. My sweet hubby’s coffee is too strong for me to drink, so I have my own little machine to make my weak, but necessary, brew. Billy-Bob would never tell me my coffee was terrible, but he manages to convey the sentiment in subtle ways. I am not so kind about his brew. I watch him grind the beans that he roasted himself on the back porch, and as he stuffs the filter basket with an ungodly amount, I bring my hands up to encircle my neck and make strangled gagging noises. On the few occasions that I have attempted to drink his coffee, I have loaded it with milk and held my nose. Were Billy-Bob forced to drink my coffee, like that could ever happen, I’m pretty sure he would respond in much the same way as the Texas rancher in a romance novel I read. Forced to drink hospital coffee, this rancher commented in what is now one of my favorite metaphors of all time: “I could get stronger brew if I put a coffee bean up a duck’s ass and filled my cup downstream.” Thankfully, my hubby is not a Texan.

Billy-Bob gets up first on the weekend. When he’s awake, he’s up. He dresses, retrieves the paper from the end of the drive, and begins his daily grind. Rising from bed is a longer process for me. I tend to stretch and roll like a fat, pampered cat deciding if anything is really worth getting up from this warm, comfortable spot. After several minutes of yawning and bemoaning the necessity of getting up at all, I eventually slide myself out of the bed and over to the sink, only to see in the mirror what the fat cat dragged in. The temptation to return to the bed is barely resistible. By the time I am lured downstairs, still in my jammies, by the need for coffee, Billy-Bob is drinking his. He greets me with a smile, and occasionally throws caution to the wind by saying, “Good afternoon.” But all is forgiven when I walk over to my coffeemaker and find it filled with water, a filter jauntily perched atop the basket. Scoop in the coffee, press ON, and out comes the nectar of the gods. Sweet Jesus! Sweet hubby.

As I stared at the empty coffeemaker this morning, I imagined the maw of the empty reservoir was filled with fresh water, glistening with the light’s reflection, winking at the filter’s jaunty paper hat. I found myself entertaining the thought of asking my hubby to fill my coffeemaker before he goes to work! I could feel my own eyes widen in surprise. My god! I am a Spoiled Princess! I AM a Lazy Girl! My dad had tried to tell me for years, and I would bristle at his words. Now I knew. How did I react to this startling revelation? Did I set out to disprove it? Did I attack the crumbs on the counter or assault the clutter on the kitchen table? Did I destroy the dust on the furniture or decimate the detritus on the floor? Did I decide to vigorously vacuum or launch a load of laundry? No. Lord, no. I made my coffee and turned on my laptop to write this piece, once again passing up a distasteful task for something I enjoy doing. It’s been twenty years since I went into therapy and learned to embrace my Inner Bitch. Certainly I can do the same for Lazy Girl. I’ll learn to wear her like a badge. Complaints can be sent to Imalazygirl@email.com. That and a bean up a duck’s ass will get you cup of coffee.