|If I ever met her (with the aid of a time machine), June Cleaver would punch me hard in the face.|
Right before you get to the part where you're imagining yourself in a 1960's episode of Leave it to Beaver, you realize that your laundry isn't clean at all. Infact, you've just barely started to load the washer at 4:30 in the afternoon. Never mind that June Cleaver would have dinner on the table, you haven't been to the grocery store in weeks. Now, you'll have to order out.
And what's that you're wearing? It's not an apron, or a dress, or a matching pantsuit. It's not even faded jeans and a crumpled t-shirt. No dear, you haven't cleaned, cooked or even dressed yourself today. That's why you're still clad in wrinkled pajamas and hair done up in a scrunchie. A freaking scrunchie for crying out loud! A scrunchie!
Your husband narrows his brow and begins to squint in your general direction. Your once happy mate is now examining exactly what it is he's come home to. When he first walked through the door, his expression excitedly read, "This is what I have!" and sadly digressed to a somber, "This is what I get".
From then until now has felt like an eternity inside your head, but really, it has only taken a couple of minutes to shift the mood from a once gleeful exchange, to a disappointing, "Same shit, different day" head shake.
Women everywhere cringe at your lackluster failure to run a household and work from home in parallel. Luckily, it's only Monday. Tomorrow, you say, I'll be better.