Relaxing Shouldn’t Be This Much Work

I am not this Dolly Mama…yet.

I can’t just sit down and play. First, I have to prove I deserve it.

In my head, this involves Judge Joey.

“Your Honor, I answered my emails, started the laundry, and made a grocery list.”

She looks unimpressed.

“Did you go to the supermarket?”

“Not yet.”

“Did you fold the laundry?”

“It’s still in the dryer.”

“Did you clean the kitchen?”

“I wiped a counter.”

“One counter?”

“The main one.”

“Request denied.”

So instead of reading my book, I get up and do something responsible.

My partner, on the other hand, can walk into his man cave, pick up his guitar, and disappear for three hours without once wondering whether we need toilet paper.

The laundry could be forming its own government and the dust bunnies could be reproducing under the couch while he happily plays guitar.

He doesn’t submit a written request. He doesn’t explain that he worked hard all week and deserves a little time to himself.

He just goes.

Men seem to come equipped with an internal permission slip.

I think the dog ate mine.

Recently, I told my partner I wanted to spend the afternoon painting.

Then I immediately began explaining why.

I had worked all morning. I needed a creative break. I could experiment with colors. I might come up with a new idea for Dolly Mamas.

I couldn’t simply say, “I want to paint because painting makes me happy.”

No. I had to turn happiness into a business expense. Then, before the paint was dry, I called a board meeting.

Could this become a product?

Would it work on a mug?

Should it go on a shirt?

Blah, blah, blah…

I don’t seem to know how to enjoy something unless I give it a deadline. On a positive note… I’m great at putting pleasure to work.

And painting isn’t the only thing I feel obligated to defend.

“I’m meeting a friend for lunch” becomes “I haven’t seen her in months, and I’ll be home early.”

Nobody asked when I would be home.

“I spent the afternoon doing absolutely nothing” becomes “I needed to recharge.”

Doing nothing is unacceptable, but recharging makes me sound like an important electronic device.

I apologize, explain, and defend myself before anyone has accused me of anything.

My partner isn’t standing outside his man cave holding a mop and demanding to know how I can read when the floor needs mopping.

I’m the one prosecuting myself.

I’m also the defendant, the witness, the judge, and the exhausted woman cleaning the courtroom after everyone leaves.

Somewhere along the way, I decided fun must be earned, while responsibility has no closing time.

Maybe I learned it from watching women who were always doing something for somebody—women praised for being responsible, dependable, selfless, and able to do it all.

I wanted to be that woman.

I just didn’t realize “doing it all” had no completion date.

There is no moment when a bell rings and someone announces, “Congratulations! You have officially finished everything. You may now sit down without guilt.”

I know this because I’ve been waiting.

Even when I allow myself to sit down, my brain is wandering around the house with a clipboard.

You should answer that email.

You should clean out the refrigerator.

You should figure out why there are seventeen charging cords in that drawer and none of them fit anything you currently own.

I should probably stop should-ing on myself—but apparently, that’s another thing I should do.

The funny thing is, I would never treat a friend this way.

If she wanted to read a book, I wouldn’t tell her to clean the refrigerator first. I’d tell her to put her feet up and leave the yogurt in the back to die in peace.

I would say, “Good for you.”

Then I would go home and fold a fitted sheet before allowing myself to sit down.

I’m trying to catch myself before I start gathering evidence for a trial nobody scheduled.

Not successfully, of course. Let’s not get carried away.

Yesterday, I decided to conduct an experiment.

I sat down with a book while there were dishes in the sink.

I saw them.

They saw me.

It was tense.

For several minutes, neither side moved.

I opened my book.

I read four pages.

Then I got up and did the dishes.

Clearly, I’m still a work in progress.

But four pages is a start.

One day, I may work my way up to an entire chapter without submitting receipts, calling witnesses, or explaining how reading improves cognitive function.

In the meantime, if you’ve been waiting for someone to tell you it’s okay to read, paint, nap, watch stupid television, or do absolutely nothing for an hour, here it is:

Your permission slip.

No explanation required.

As for me, I have a book to read.

The dust bunnies seem perfectly capable of raising themselves.

Case closed!

❤️ joey

P.S. This Dolly Mama has mastered what I’m still working on. You’ll find her on mugs, T-shirts, journals, and more in my shop. Housecleaning services not included.