Who Does the Dishes?

Yesterday, my friends and I were having a heated debate about who does the dishes. Suddenly, my wife asked a simple question: who does the dishes? At first glance, any normal human being’s answer would entail choosing either partner — or both. And if you’re Richie Rich, you’d probably choose one of the house staff.

To our laughable dismay, and with the most confident and quietest of attitudes, she said: “Both Hands.”

Such a profoundly funny answer to a question that is so triggering to many couples today. So simple, so straightforward.

Is it though?

Let’s make this unnecessarily contemplative. Both of them work. Both have worries, wants, wishes, and wonderings. Both want to create meaning in their life.

He goes off to work with an ambitious hat on his head, a crisp shirt of confidence on his dad-bod, neutral trousers of anxiety on his underworked desk-jobbed legs, polished yearning-for-that-promotion shoes, and a leather hard-work watch. He’s dreading the competition, fearing the traffic there and back, pep-talking himself to drown that self-loathing demon spreading its roots of rot on a red-veined throne settled on top of his reasoned self-evaluation internal apparatus.

Phew. Sorry about that.

Lemme check my Instagram real quick…

He spends the day thinking about the bills, the rent, the premiums he has to pay. Oops, I mean he must pay. It’s a responsibility, not a burden… He’s asked himself “how much!” so many times he’s numb. He just pays and goes. He saves money — well, he tries to save money. He tries to want to save money. He tries to want to try to save money. It’s like that movie: Mission Impossible: To No Avail.

He contemplates his choices every single minute of every day.

“Did I get married and have children for the right reasons?”

“But what are the right reasons?”

“What am I doing with my life?”

“Another war? Another gender?”

“Another flood? Another fender-bender?”

“Damn it, I just crashed the car. Now I have to deal with people’s deception and insurance underpayment.”

“What did I do to deserve this?

Oof, let’s not open that door.”

He keeps that door closed and carries on with his zombie life. Barely living, nor dead. “Create a routine for your life,” they told him on that podcast. “It’ll change your life.” Eye roll.

Unplanned Instagram intermission…

He spends the day in agonizing anxiety, paralyzed, unable to make a decision. He has bills to pay. A family to feed. A job to hunt. A self to actualize. A hobby to find. A reason to live, love, laugh, and let go. He lives in the past so intensely it became his present and future. What a tense way to live.

He comes home, and has to think about doing the dishes. Yippee.

But Wait, What About Her?

She wakes up after her husband to embark on her house-wife journey. She washes up, relishes a coffee on the balcony, gracefully sips the cup, poisedly places it down on the table, enjoying the view; a calm washes over her. She has an outstanding breakfast with her gabby friend, then goes for a brisk morning walk betwixt shadows cast by glorious, glistening groves, while the housekeepers — the busy bees — are hard at work, keeping the lion’s den spick and span in perfect order.

But that’s not real.

This is real life, not Bridgerton. Snap out of it.

She probably wakes him up, that lazy ox, and even dresses him to be presentable. If it were up to him, he’d wear the same damn clothes every day. She makes breakfast and coffee, with barely any time left to get ready for work. He leaves, drops off the children at school, and heads to work.

Meanwhile, she gives herself a little pep-talk in front of the mirror, trying to lift whatever is left of her spirit.

“You’re a mom, a house-wife, a busy bee; you’re a jacktress of all trades.”

She doesn’t believe herself. She casts shadows of doubt all around her exhausted self.

She heads off to work and, just like her man, drowns in her own sea of shadows and questions.

“Really? This is it? Feels like The Truman Show.”

“Why didn’t I get to leave before him? He wears a suit and combs his hair and he’s done. This IS a man’s world.”

“I have to do the dishes.”

“What am I doing with my life? I feel like I’m on autopilot most of the time.”

“How do other people make it look so easy?”

“I want more for myself. Or is that too selfish?”

“Is Jack gonna hit on me today too? Kill me, please.”

“Another man president? Really?”

She parks her car and heads to her office, dreading every horrible aspect of meeting Jack on the way up…

Work’s done, Jack’s avoided. She sighs in relief and goes home. Walks in — no red carpet, no greetings whatsoever. A total silence from the lambs.

She changes her clothes, makes lunch, adds to the pile of dishes already simmering silently in the sink, fearing the moment of truth when they have to decide who does the dishes.

Her hubby is watching TV, with their children screaming bloody murder around him. He’s just sitting there with his nothing-box, watching the game. “Never thought I’d see a couch sitting on another couch,” she says, gazing at her nothing-boxing husband.

“Drives me crazy. Wish he’d get off his ass and wash the dishes.”

Gutting the grim, grinding growl of thoughts gouging the back of her tongue, she gently touches his shoulder, and with a swift kiss on the lips she seduces him into washing the dishes.

He, a mighty master in the meticulous art of motionless moldering, says, “I’ll get right to ’em.” She knows this has the vibes of him seeing a laundry basket placed right in the living room and walking right over it. “He’s not as lazy as the writer of my lines though. He can’t even write my life with more S’s than H’s.”

He’s downtrodden, she’s knee-deep in exhaustion. Both hands are tired of this tedious tread of daily tasks and want some peace.

And at the end of the day, they both know the ultimate answer to our gloomy question:

“Both Hands, Obviously.”

Then happily, they both go to sleep… while a freakin’ pile of dishes sits there waiting to be cleansed of the wretched stains left by its humans.

Did my writing mean nothing to both of you? I’ve spent so much time crafting these spectacular images — for what? For dirty dishes? I’m out.

Will someone please do the dishes? I’m losing my mind…