I am a lazy person. I’m sure defining “lazy” is a little subjective. I go to work every day, I work extra from home, I run between 9-12 miles a week (unless I’m really training hard and then I’ll run 15-18 miles a week).
But otherwise, I’m lazy. I like to sit on the couch, melt my brain with Netflix binges and eat Cheez-It’s. During football season that laziness kicks into another gear, because I can literally sit down when pregame starts around 8 a.m. and not move until 9 or 10 that night. The entire time I feel guilty about all the things I could be doing, but the things I refuse to do because football is far more important.
All this to say that you can probably guess how I’ve felt about moving from one house to another lately. I would rather swim with crocodiles or take my chances with Russian roulette than move ever again.
It’s never ending. It seems like we’ve moved carload after carload for days and days and nothing seems to get any better. My misery has hit another level with the expectation that I execute some basic home repairs before closing. I’m not talking about anything major – caulk a seal here, fix a board there.
Those may seem small – might as well be trigonometry to me. I’m not handy. That came to a head Monday when I decided to caulk a couple of small spots while waiting on a repairman for something beyond my expertise. So, while in my work clothes (I was supposed to go back to work after this), I embarked on what should have been a simple task. Not so much.
I cut the tip off the caulk, tried to squeeze some out only to look down and see the back had popped off the tube and white caulk was running down the right leg of my grey dress pants. In a panic, I ran inside to grab a wet towel and tried to clean it up. That was pointless. Now my pants were stained with caulk and soaking wet all the way down both legs.
I couldn’t go to our new home to change because Holly was in a deep slumber and my problems would only be multiplied by waking her. So, shamefully, I slow walked into the Walmart, looking like a failure. Shirt untucked, dress pants wrinkled, stained and wet, and inexplicable mud on my shoes (It’s almost as if I was staged). I caught myself limping in the door. I wasn’t even hurt – I guess it just fit my mood.
By the time I got to the register and realized I had forgot my wallet, I couldn’t help but laugh. Moving is not for me. Repair work certainly is not for me.
If you want to find me from here on out, I’ll be on the couch where I belong.
–Josh Peterson is the publisher of the Manchester Times. He is a Tennessee Press Association award-winning writer and photographer. His column, “From the publisher’s desk” won TPA first-place honors for best personal humor column and best personal column. The National Newspaper Association named him “Top 30 Under 30” of newspaper professionals in 2016. He can be reached by email firstname.lastname@example.org or by telephone at 931-728-7577 ext. 105. Follow him on Twitter @joshpeterson29