I just packed Josh’s lunch for him tomorrow. Potatoes, with fixings packed separately, salt shaker included, and left over rotisserie chicken. Neatly packed in his favorite blue lunch box, and placed in a prominent spot in the fridge, where it cannot be missed or overlooked.
If I don’t pack it just so, I incur a $5 to $10 fine.
I hear you thinking. “WHAT!? He FINES her if she doesn’t pack his LUNCH? What kind of a #@#$%(!”
Whoa, Nelly! Rein it in!
If my man’s lunch is not packed and at the go come morning, he will put on his big boy pants and get himself his own lunch. He is fully capable and more than willing to save me the trouble. He will most certainly not disturb my sleep to so much as help him locate a lost lunch. He will gladly procure his very own tasty, delicious, nutritionally lacking meal, processed over a piece of plastic with a handy dandy magnetic strip. Our bank will record his big boy lunch as bargain deal, somewhere under $10. Every. single. day.
Begging, pleading, nagging and guilting the life out of him has motivated him to attempt to skip lunch, substituting junk food out of vending machines and co-workers’ candy jars. Oh what a win-win that one is! His cholesterol gave him away to our doc.
So in the hope of having a companion in my old age, and one day achieving total debt freedom, I have just packed my man’s lunch. If I’m feeling particularly inspired, I’ll include a card with a note about how much I love him, and how much I appreciate how hard he works, how much time and attention he pours into our children, and how incredibly supportive he is of the job I do.
He’ll have to find my phone before he goes to bed, and he’ll probably have to go out to the car after he’s already stripped down to his boxers for something I totally forgot about but absolutely must have right this minute. And no, I would never do that just to watch him run about in his boxers in semi-public. I think we’re even.