My Lazy Ass

OK, I admit it - I'm lazy.

Lazy, lazy, lazy.

If it wasn't for the 68 things I cram into my seven hour day off (the one with only one child at my ankles), I would be sitting on the couch. Oh yea, I'd be lounging with my coffee watching Tyra and Rachel and Whoopi and, you know what, even Martha, because I'm that lazy.

If it wasn't for the inner drive pushing me to take classes and then actually want to put them to use, I'd be still be a bank teller wearing sweaty, organ-restricting nylons and closed-toed shoes and offering extra services to customers who don't want or need them. I'd be miserable but what can you expect when you're lazy?

If it wasn't for the DJ who suddenly blurts out of my radio at 6:10AM reminding me not so subtly to get my lazy ass out of bed, I'd still be there, right now. Snoring. Happily. If a sleep-saturated toddler snuggled under my chin at 3AM every night and who, when the snuggling turns to pro-wrestling, I heft back to his own bed, maybe then I'd have an excuse to hit "snooze" one more time but no, I'm just lazy.

If it wasn't for the eight sheets of paper and four crafts that come home in my daughter's folder every single day, I would never have a mountain of dead trees sliding all across the kitchen counter, but I do because, yes, I'm lazy.

If the dust-bunnies would quit having dust-bunny sex and multiplying like, well, dust-bunnies, I'd have a perfectly clean floor and my broom wouldn't look like a member of ZZ Top, but I don't and it does - lazy is as lazy does.

If I wasn't so damn lazy this post would be longer and better written but, ya know what.... Whatever.