I have a nice desk chair. It is cushy. It is black. I received it for my birthday last year, and amazingly enough, the arm is already cracked and peeling (fake leather, I guess). Nonetheless, it’s nice to sit on when I need to write.
When I get to sit on it, that is.
I think it has a hidden alarm. Some sort-of hidden panic button or something, because the second my hiney plops down into the seat, the wailing-meter is pinging, kids’ mouths are going off, and there’s immediately a fight, or a child calling for me, coming in need of aid, the baby wakes. But OOH! LOOK! IT’S MY CHAIR! CAN I SIT IN MY CHAIR, PLEASE? PLEEEASE?
Nope, my butt is alerting the block and beyond, now, the doorbell rings, or the phone, or a neighbor or workman comes a-knockin’ because I just sat down, or perhaps a timer, or poop, ‘cuz who can work well when the stench of death is afoot in your house anyway, hmm? And these two are tag-teaming me day-in, day-out with diapers (I think they’ve got a pretty well-constructed plan, Operation Poopie Shorts™). BUT MY CHAIR? LOOK! A BLANK BLOG POST- MOMMY’S GOTTA WORK NOW, OKAY? LOOKIE! CUSHY CHAIR! SHINY! CAN MOMMY SIT IN HER PRETTY CHAIR NOW?
Noooooo, I have to get up again because husband is calling from upstairs, laundry needs to be flip-flopped, “Mom, where’s this for my outfit tomorrow,” yet I wasn’t the one who wore it last BUT THAT CHAIR SEEMS AWFULLY COMFY, DON’T YOU THINK KIDS? “But moooooom, what’s the square root of eleventy-billion and…” CAN’T YOU ASK DAD? No, because I’m sitting in the God-forsaken Alarmed Chair of Death™, triggering a war unlike one I’ve ever known, and the second I stand up, he can answer the problem all by himself! But to return my tired hindside to the blessed chair once more, it’s like I’ve sucked out his brain by sitting, or something, because suddenly the answer is nowhere to be found, forgotten! ALARM STRIKES AGAIN.
I quit. Who needs to work out, I’m gonna squat at my laptop so I can work from now on. How ya like me now!?
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