Thursday is my day to vacuum, dust, polish, change the cat litter and take out the garbage and other sundry tasks.
Unless, of course, there are additional chores my wife can uncover.
I really don't mind doing this stuff. I call it my house husbandry and I guess I've been doing this for about 25 years of our 30-year marriage. When I tell people it's my day to vacuum, some look at me cross-eyed, as if to ask, "Why are you doing the vacuuming? Shouldn't you be playing golf? Wimp."
Actually, I probably should be playing golf, being retired and all, but my wife is still gainfully employed in the work force. That means, hidden somewhere in the small print of the marriage contract, it says I do the things I can to make her life a little easier. She does not need to worry about whether or not the house is clean this week when she's worried about being the best she can be in the workplace, or concerned about taking care of her 80-year-old father.
(The small print, by the way, is set in invisible ink. Which means everything the small print says is understood. Understand? )
Well, OK, she does do the laundry. Only because it's not a good idea for me to be anywhere near a washing machine or an ironing board. I never could iron out wrinkles without ironing in new ones, and who knows what the heck I'm dumping into the washing machine? I once thought fabric softener was laundry detergent. So there. Underwear may not have been clean, but they sure didn't itch.
So, yes, I do the vacuuming and whatever else needs to be done around the house and don't think twice about it.
I know what you're going to ask now. What about those first five years of our marriage?
I have no excuse, really. I probably haven't evolved much beyond male chauvinistic pigism. That's because all of that was before I learned how to read invisible ink.