Sunday Afternoon

Benjamin Franklin said that you could count on two things in life: death and taxes. I say you can count on three: death, taxes, and my husband taking a nap on Sunday afternoon.

What is it with men, anyway? They get the nap gene hard-wired into the DNA, we girls tiptoe around them multi-tasking until our brains are tapioca, and they wake after a couple of hours semi-refreshed and ready to watch some baseball.

What's that all about?

It's not like I didn't know what I was getting into. He did the nap thing while we were dating--you know, the "Isn't that cute?" phase of the relationship. I should have known it would transfer over into married life, like the socks in the middle of the floor habit and the ice cream addiction.

I'm not complaining. I just find it fascinating. I'm looking around the wreck that is our house, wondering if a fire hose and a push broom are a good idea, and he's contemplating the inside of his eyelids. Seems an unfair trade.

What the heck. I'll let him sleep a while. Once he's up, though, all bets are off. He'll have a chore list, and I'll be lounging outside in the perfect Florida weather, reading a romance novel.

Not bad for a Sunday afternoon, even if I have to do laundry first.