Super Sunday Morning Man

So what exactly is the first day of the rest of your life supposed to feel like?

The answer, my friends, is pretty boring.

Slept for ten hours. Got up and brewed the first batch of freedom coffee. Wrote in my journal. Went for a gentle bike ride with my wife. Cooked lunch (Hamburgers with turkey bacon on whole wheat flat bread). Paced about the house a bit, sipping mango iced tea and lamenting my fantasy football disaster from last night.

All three of my guys I've been scouting since July have taken an absolute dump statistically.

Well, poop.

At least I still have an excuse to drink beer before noon for the next fifteen Sundays.

After this, I will shower and brush my teeth. After that I will rehearse for an hour or so. Go to the store to pick up some items for dinner. Cook that dinner. Eat that dinner. Clean up after that dinner. Watch Monday night Football and hope that Michael Vick and Desean Jackson have the kind of opening game that Colin Kaepernick and Anquan Boldin had yesterday.

The guys know what I'm talking about.

And all that matters to the girls is that I'm most likely going to be doing the dishes.

Either way, I just became super sexy to both parties.

Every man in the world likes to root for the underdog, and girls like men soapy and wearing yellow rubber gloves.

Unless they can get Colin Firth emerging from a water fountain dressed in white linen.

That sh*t is gold.

Enter wife:

"Hey babe?"


"Do these pants look too wrinkly?"


"Do they look like they've been rolled up in a ball?"

"Yeah. They do look like they've been rolled up into a ball"

Exit wife.

Now normally an exchange like this would aggravate me because it would have totally ruined my flow. I only have so much time an energy to put into this stuff, and sometimes the joke that has been swimming around my head will just poof out of existence, all in the name of confirming to my wife what she pretty much already knew. What would she have done had I been at work? Would she have taken a picture of her pants and texted it to me? Probably not. She would've just made the decision from the get go that she wasn't going to be comfortable in anything and either gone out in rain gear, or hid in a closet with a pint of ice cream, a spoon, and a Pride and Prejudice DVD cover.

But I've seen her in four outfits today.

So at least she's gonna keep trucking on.

Which is good, cause I still need her for things. Lots of things. And the point I was making was that I totally ain't irritated. If she wants my opinion on the winkle factor of her pants while I'm writing, or text me a list of chores from the living room couch or talk about her feelings at the breakfast table, I am suddenly, totally cool with that.

Cause I can do that now. There will be tomorrow. I can chillax.

It's like having a new super power.

I am Sunday Morning Man.

Stronger than an eight year old, Faster than an old lady writing a check at the super market, able to reach obscure serve-ware from the tallest cabinet.

If he can't do it right now, he can do it this afternoon, and if he can't do it this afternoon, he can do it tonight or tomorrow or October.

And yet,

and yet,

He can see right now there's a little passive aggressive caveat to his new super power.

Something that I think she's gonna need to be aware of if she wants to call upon Super Sunday Morning Man whenever the spirit moves her.

Which is the fact that if she's gonna interrupt him, she's gonna get written in.

Enter wife:

"Hey babe?"


"I'm probably not going to eat anything but soup tonight, my stomach is really bad, so you just have to cook dinner for you and mini-you."


"It's all the heavy foods, and the heat, and the stress."


"What are you gonna make?"

"I have no idea. This . . . this changes everything."

"I know, I was excited for you to make me dinner. So I put the pants in the dryer for a few minutes, do they look less wrinkly now? I mean, can I go out wearing these without looking like a complete schlub?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Kay, I'm gonna go pick up mini-you. Think about what you want to make for dinner and let me know what you want me to pick up from the store. Kay, bye, love you."

Exit wife.

And in this case it works just fine. She's unwittingly helped me drag this piece out of the gutter and brought a sense of liveliness it was totally lacking before seeking my useless opinion.

I might have spent this entire piece on mango iced tea and Fantasy Football. Which might have been funny, but not nearly as good.

So let this be both a pledge and a warning.

Super Sunday Morning Man is here for you.

Cause he can do that now.

But everything you do is now fodder for the blog-mill and nothing is sacred.

Well, I guess some things are sacred.

At least while Super Sunday Morning Man's mother is still alive.

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