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If I Ever Stop Posting, You’ll Know Where to Find Me

I don’t think of myself as a paranoid person, really. I don’t think people are ‘out to get me’, or that there’s ‘danger around every corner’. And I only barely ever hear disembodied voices. No, really. What? Stop looking at me that way.

Anyway, I don’t do a lot of worrying. But something occurred to me yesterday, as I was trudging down to the basement with a load of dirty towels:

I’ve only got so many trips down those stairs without slipping all the damned way down.

That’s a bit unsettling, I’ve got to tell you. But I took a long, objective look at it, and it’s true — sooner or later, I’m taking a header down the basement stairs. I considered the relative slippiness of the stairs, and the fact that I often have laundry in my arms blocking my view when I climb down. And finally, I came to terms with the fact that I’m a generally off-balance, often dizzy klutz. And that was the kicker — one day, I’m gonna miss a step and *bippity-boppity-bumpity-boopity-splat* to the bottom. It’s inevitable, really.

And the thing is, I’ll forget all about this revelation. See, as long as I remember that I might kill myself on the stairs one day, then I’ll be careful. But I’m also easily distractable — so I can see what’s going to happen. One day, I’ll careen through the door to the stairs, rushing to grab some laundry or retrieve a screwdriver or hit the secret liquor stash I keep down there, and I’ll forget how narrow and steep and slickery the stairs are, and that’ll be it. When I wake up, I’ll be sprawled at the bottom, covered in cobwebs and dust and dirty towels. If I wake up at all. Yow.

Now, immediately, this seemed like a perfectly reasonable excuse for never, ever doing laundry ever again. Not that I wouldn’t want to do laundry, you understand — you reading this, honey? It’s just that I might die doing laundry some day, and I just can’t picture myself going out like that. In a fiery car crash, sure. Or pushed out of a window at work — that’s just a matter of time, too, really. I’ve even worked out one rather complicated scenario where I die under a pile of rotting kangaroo carcasses. But doing the frigging laundry?! Nah. That shit don’t get you into Valhalla. I’m not having it.

My wife, of course, isn’t buying it. She doesn’t see the imminent danger I’m in — and anyway, she’s none too happy that I’d put her life at risk by making her wash all the clothes.

(To which I say: ‘claptrap‘! Because she isn’t the clumsy drooling douchebag that I am. There’s way less chance that she’s ever going to fall down those stairs, no matter what happens. She could do the damned limbo down there, one stair at a time, and be just damned peachy. I could breathe wrong, and bam — I’m at the bottom, and making sure all my limbs are still screwed on the right way. It’s not frigging fair, dammit!)

So, anyway, I’m still on the hook for traipsing down there a couple of times every week or so — it’s my job to get the laundry started, and then the wifey will swoop in later to finish the drying and carry the clothes upstairs for folding. It’s a fine system, with plenty of sharing and equality and shit — except for the damned deathtrap gauntlet I’ve got to run to do my fricking job. Where’s the ‘fair’ in that, I ask you? And are dislocated limbs really worth fluffy soft towels and a couple of pairs of clean jeans? I think not. I’m perfectly happy living in filthy squalor, if it’s gonna save my life. Hey, call me crazy. I’m just saying.