Lazy
Turning to the next page. In this dog magazine. It’s a list. Of the laziest dog breeds. Are you serious? Lazy dogs? Really? It’s true. Mastiffs. Bulldogs. Pekinese. Chows. French Bulldogs. Terriers. Spaniels. All of them. Lazy dogs. Who knew? Not me. But lazy men? Oh, yeah. I’ve known a few. Like my ex-husband. The hoarder. But here’s the thing. When I was a kid, we moved from house to house. City to city. State to state. Every year. A new house. New school. New friends. New life. Always. Starting over. Every year. Me. Because, because. My father liked to change jobs. And my mother liked to decorate. So I grew up living out of boxes. Never unpacked. I mean, what’s the point if you’re always on the move, right? This is why I’m a minimalist (in case you’ve ever wondered). And this is how I could leave my husband. With just the clothes on my back. (In case you’ve ever wondered.) And this is how I could start over. Here. In a different city. A different state. And I’m still that way. Everything I own fits in my car. Still. And I’m cool with that. So how did I end up marrying a hoarder? Beats me! Never intended to. Never saw the signs. Never knew they existed. Hoarders. Never knew. Until we were married. And nothing ever left the house. Nothing. Piles and piles of junk. Dust. Dirt. Everywhere. Every day. No matter how much I cleaned. Useless. Ridiculous. Junk. Destroying room after room. Laziness. Pure laziness. That’s what it is. Hoarding. And him. My ex. Refusing to take responsibility. For his mess. Leaving it for me to clean up. And I did. For seven years. Until, until. That night. After work. When I got in my car and drove. Past my exit. Past our neighbourhood. Driving, driving, driving. Across one state. And then another. And another. He never imagined I’d do that. Escape. His mess. My ex. But I did. Had to. And lazy men? Forget it. Been there, done that. Oh, yeah. Trust me. I’m done.
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