Though I have proposed more romantic alternatives in the past, my true raison d'être in the very literal sense of the phrase is somewhat less poetic if not downright unpleasant at times. My “reason for being” would seem to be a trifecta of responsibility that is unlikely to lead a sane man anywhere close to that ever elusive “joie de vivre”. These responsibilities include, in no particular order of course, maintaining the home in a less than squalid condition so as not to raise the eyebrow of my adoring wife who might then wonder what exactly it is that I do all day; tending to our hatchlings in a manner that ensures they neither get too skinny nor too fat; and of course all the while preserving just a modicum of my girlish figure in order not to embarrass my wife with my doughy appearance should my presence be required at some swanky corporate shindig. Each day, as I check these items off of my “to do” list, I wonder where it is I am to find this keen enjoyment of living I have heard so much about.
Take for example my housekeeping duties. I dare say I have become accustomed to the scintillating freshness of a clean toilet and yet I can’t seem to keep from plunging most of my wife’s toiletries into the water just to see if they float. Perhaps I am becoming oafishly clumsy or maybe I am acting out because of her absence the way an ordinarily well-trained dog will start shitting all over the carpet when their owner returns from a prolonged vacation. Either way, yet again this morning I managed to topple one of her beauty products into the abyss. Fortunately, I had just scoured the bowl to a pristine shine, so I think no harm done. Still, fishing items from the toilet with such frequency is bound to give me dishpan hands. Nope, no joy here.
Then surely my joie de vivre must be found in the kitchen. For those who have been keeping up with this, it is by now a fairly well stated fact that I am not going to give Emeril Lagasse a run for his money any time soon. In the culinary arts, I like to think of myself as a master of what I like to call “Bachelor Cuisine”. If it can be baked on a cooking sheet for a qualified period of time or simply boiled in a pot of water, I am your man. Beyond that, things seem to get a little dicey. This evening for example, I opted for a little “Asian Fusion”. In my case, that is a fusion between stirfry and the inedible. Chinese food has actually become one of my specialties. With a little help from my good friends Ben and Suzy, I can usually come up with something that is nearly palatable. The kids have come to know Ben so well over the course of the past two years that they refer to him as “Uncle”. We haven’t known Ms. Wan for quite as long, but between her sauce recipes and Uncle B’s long grain, we seem to scrape by. Prison rations is probably closer to the truth, but what doesn’t kill them will make them stronger . . . RIGHT? Still not sure that Chicken was done enough. Oh well, time heals all wounds, including food poisoning it seems. Huh, how about that . . . no joy here.
Ah, then my joie de vivre MUST be in the Gym. For some this is truly the case and perhaps it once was for me as well. Now, in order to maintain anything short of a gelatinous midsection I must constantly scrutinize that which I ingest and spend precious time, that I don’t have, enduring a joint rattling run to the sound of my thighs squeaking together in a two part harmony while my moobs (man boobs for the uninitiated) bounce wildly against my chin like Bo Derek in “10”. At the end of the day, all I have to show for all the effort are sweaty armpits (against which I don’t have a reasonable product to combat), a notable rash from really chaffed thighs, and a sore jaw from all the abuse my chin has taken before my aching joints finally gave out. Hmmmm . . . still no joy.
It would seem to me then that my raison d'être is actually consuming my joie de vivre, and at a fairly prodigious rate I might add. So what is the answer? The alternative would seem to be a fetid home that I would ultimately have to be cut out of as my obesity ballooned to the point of being the bedridden father of two malnourished children. Is THAT Joy? I sure hope not. In the end, maybe a keen enjoyment of living is the ability sit on a clean toilet without the assistance of others while your children bang on the bathroom door asking “what’s for lunch?” On that note, it’s time to run . . . literally. See you all again soon.
Oh wait, I know what you are thinking . . . what about the STUPID DOG? The truth is, he never did eat anyone’s homework. I mean, how could he? He is far too busy devouring cat turd canapés that he feels compelled to pluck from the litter box, thereby leaving a trail of cat litter across the floor like a trail of bread crumbs for me to clean up. STUPID DOG. I have discovered, however, that this particular cloud has a silver lining. Now, whenever the children stare despondently at their dinner plate and in near unison announce, “Dad, this tastes like shit”, I simply offer a portion to the dog. If he immediately partakes with an indulgent zeal, I know they must be right and offer them a peanut butter and jelly sandwich instead. Thanks for watching. R.
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