on kings and ankles that smell like cheese.

So, this past weekend was supposed to be The Weekend of Moving All Our Stuff Out of the Crazy Landlady's House and Into My Crazy Parents' House (TWMAOSOCLHIMCPH).  It became, however, The Weekend of Sarah Spraining Her Ankle and Then RICE-ing It On the Couch, So We Only Got Some of Our Stuff Moved Out (TWSSHATRIOCSWOGSOSMO). 

Imagine this: The Mister and I wake up extra early on Saturday morning, all fresh-faced and doe-eyed and other such things, ready to do battle with the shitbox we've been calling home for the past year.  We make the trek down to the house (as we have already entrenched ourselves at my parents' abode), stopping on the way to get some coffee.  We were full of optimism and hope and caffeine; it was truly beautiful.  We  arrive at our soon-to-be-former-home and I begin packing various items while The Mister finishes up some last minute dishes.  I promptly forget that there is a step down between the kitchen and the den, sending me sprawling, and spraining my left ankle.  I was pissed, mostly because I just had to lie there all damn day and so we couldn't actually get that much work done.  Something interesting to note, however, was that right after the accident, my left foot smelled really bad--kind of like cheese.  My other foot produced no such aroma, and the cheese smell had completely dissipated after about ten minutes.  Theories? 

So, yeah.  That was really great.  

But!  One great thing that came of this experience was that I got to miss work yesterday.  Man, I really like not working.  I could not work a lot.

Numerous friends have insisted to me that they would still choose to work, even if they were completely financially secure (e.g., King Midas, King David, King Ding Dong, etc.).  That's some crazy shit!  Who are these loons?  Working is, like, totally...sucky.  As Shakespeare said.  

Ahem.

Sometimes I think that I just feel this way because I've only ever had shit jobs, have yet to find my "true calling" (or at least something that isn't totally mind-numbing and/or beneath me), yadda yadda.  But then I think about The Mister--someone who has an awesome job doing something he's passionate about, makes a lot of money, is his own boss, and doesn't have to work that much to do well.  And even he doesn't really want to work.  

So are we just lazy?  Or perhaps we have simply thrown off capitalism's shackles, wherein one's identity and societal worth is determined by one's material output/adherence to the Protestant work ethic?  

Or something.

Yeah.  It's definitely the second one. 

Comments

[bree]

i always want to comment, but, never do...
so, i'm a long time reader, first time commenter.
i agree. working is sucky.
jason agrees too.