The Writing Mamas Daily Blog
Each day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.
And for that, you are a goddess.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
The Half-Ass Club
Meeting an offbeat, grass-chewing Southern boy, and driving in his spluttering convertible around the streets of Santa Monica, was a hoot. Kent was unconventional, irreverent and lived a plane ride away -- the perfect escape, a no-obligation bonk.
In the first year together I bought him a belt, a wallet and a watch: items he had not used in years. We went shopping for a suit and got him a financial plan. And though his 101 job-loss stories should have raised a red flag, one of those crazy days I tripped and fell sideways in love.
The day we moved in together, Kent told me that he “just didn't clean.” He also admitted to handymanitis, regularly paying late fees, and pre-planning his sick days. This all seemed surmountable in the filtered light of true love. It wasn’t until we were married with baby that he told me about The Club.
I had always wondered how the homecoming king, senior student council president and rockin’ drummer (with the local heartthrob band ‘Hippie le Peu’ no less) had managed to slither into the background.
According to Kent, it started with a hand-shake agreement between the founding members of The Club, he and his roommate, Dennis. I knew many of the stories. The most enduring visual being two white-legged Georgia boys geared up for a full day mountain bike ride, quitting on the first hill and hitch-hiking back, high-fiving in the back of a hay-filled pick-up truck.
This was the formative moment for “The Half-Ass Club.”
After nine years, seven months and four days, I told Kent I wanted -- no, I needed -- to join. I was done with finishing – finishing the cleaning, taxes, house projects, sentences. More than a dust-free sofa and a flea-free dog, I wanted his happiness quotient. The truth is, he got more done than I, his friendships were well-maintained, his career on track, he was a loving husband and father -- all despite, and because of, his firm commitment to The Half-Ass Club.
Considering the options (Prozac or divorce), he agreed to share the love.
First I learnt that my husband was a closet perfectionist. Underneath his easy-going ways buzzed a far-from-half-ass system of decision making trees -- all pointing to minimum disruption and maximum efficiency (yes, efficiency!). It was not that he was unapologetically lazy as I once considered, but that he had honed a secret mindfulness, a conscious way of deflecting stressful perfectionism. This was more than taking the easy road, this was exciting new age philosophy: I grabbed my digital quill.
“Hold on hold on,” said he who doesn't ruffle. “Don't over-analyze, don't write me into neat little chapters.”
Ah, so much to learn.
…
The Half-Ass Club, Kent went on, is about doing more when your expectations are less. It is about getting started because you can always quit. Ironically, if you are a couch-potato, truly lazy with no aspirations, The Club is not for you.
I was in.
I completed the appropriately unstructured initiation and pledged my allegiance to giving less of a shit (the oath chosen for me by Kent) and now I find that life is moving along smoothly. I've learnt that vendors send reminders. I sleep well under piles of unfolded laundry and walk lightly through my days, without the weight of the details on my shoulders.
No doubt the pendulum will swing and I will succumb to alphabetizing the pantry, vacuuming the cat and other temptations. Then I will recite my pledge to the Half-Ass Club, hand off half the errand list to providence, and half the worry to Kent.
By Robyn Murphy
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In the first year together I bought him a belt, a wallet and a watch: items he had not used in years. We went shopping for a suit and got him a financial plan. And though his 101 job-loss stories should have raised a red flag, one of those crazy days I tripped and fell sideways in love.
The day we moved in together, Kent told me that he “just didn't clean.” He also admitted to handymanitis, regularly paying late fees, and pre-planning his sick days. This all seemed surmountable in the filtered light of true love. It wasn’t until we were married with baby that he told me about The Club.
I had always wondered how the homecoming king, senior student council president and rockin’ drummer (with the local heartthrob band ‘Hippie le Peu’ no less) had managed to slither into the background.
According to Kent, it started with a hand-shake agreement between the founding members of The Club, he and his roommate, Dennis. I knew many of the stories. The most enduring visual being two white-legged Georgia boys geared up for a full day mountain bike ride, quitting on the first hill and hitch-hiking back, high-fiving in the back of a hay-filled pick-up truck.
This was the formative moment for “The Half-Ass Club.”
After nine years, seven months and four days, I told Kent I wanted -- no, I needed -- to join. I was done with finishing – finishing the cleaning, taxes, house projects, sentences. More than a dust-free sofa and a flea-free dog, I wanted his happiness quotient. The truth is, he got more done than I, his friendships were well-maintained, his career on track, he was a loving husband and father -- all despite, and because of, his firm commitment to The Half-Ass Club.
Considering the options (Prozac or divorce), he agreed to share the love.
First I learnt that my husband was a closet perfectionist. Underneath his easy-going ways buzzed a far-from-half-ass system of decision making trees -- all pointing to minimum disruption and maximum efficiency (yes, efficiency!). It was not that he was unapologetically lazy as I once considered, but that he had honed a secret mindfulness, a conscious way of deflecting stressful perfectionism. This was more than taking the easy road, this was exciting new age philosophy: I grabbed my digital quill.
“Hold on hold on,” said he who doesn't ruffle. “Don't over-analyze, don't write me into neat little chapters.”
Ah, so much to learn.
…
The Half-Ass Club, Kent went on, is about doing more when your expectations are less. It is about getting started because you can always quit. Ironically, if you are a couch-potato, truly lazy with no aspirations, The Club is not for you.
I was in.
I completed the appropriately unstructured initiation and pledged my allegiance to giving less of a shit (the oath chosen for me by Kent) and now I find that life is moving along smoothly. I've learnt that vendors send reminders. I sleep well under piles of unfolded laundry and walk lightly through my days, without the weight of the details on my shoulders.
No doubt the pendulum will swing and I will succumb to alphabetizing the pantry, vacuuming the cat and other temptations. Then I will recite my pledge to the Half-Ass Club, hand off half the errand list to providence, and half the worry to Kent.
By Robyn Murphy
Labels: Robyn Murphy
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