10 Legit Reasons Why My Husband Can’t Do Work
And by “legit,” I actually mean laughably absurd.
For the majority of our six-year relationship, one of the major sources of conflict between my husband and me has been the household duties. As much as I wish I loved cleaning and organizing as much as Monica does, I just don’t… so the fact that I have to do most of it really chaps my ass.
And I’m not alone. In fact, multiple studies have shown that women are the ones who carry the burden of doing the majority of housework—even if they also work all the livelong day at a full-time job. Not that this is a big shock. Despite the fact that it’s the 21st frigging century, most Americans still believe that women should be the ones doing the work.
How can this be? I don’t have the answers. All I can conclude is: They have an endless supply of totally legit and reasonable explanations why they simply can’t be bothered with it. Here’s a list of my husband’s top 10.
1. “It’s too overwhelming; I don’t know where to start.”
Yeah, I’d be overwhelmed too, if I couldn’t see the floor. And how did it get that way? Oh yeah, you left your crap everywhere. And then put more crap on top of it. And then some more crap after that—like the cherry on top of the crushed peanuts on top of the whipped cream on top of the hot fudge on top of the ice cream. Only a helluva lot less delicious.
And it’s so simple to avoid. Clean as you go, a little bit every day, instead of letting it get to the point where you’re overwhelmed because the house looks like a mini landfill. Do your laundry before you run out of clean clothes, so you aren’t forced to wear that Avengers Halloween costume or, worse, a deodorant-stained T-shirt that smells like mildew because it’s been buried under a wet towel for three weeks. Put the junk mail and old receipts and empty chip bags in the trash can instead of next to it on the floor.
BUT THAT’S WAY. TOO. HARD.
2. “But I don’t liiike to clean.”
By the time you’re in your late thirties, you should know that cleaning out the bathroom sink absolutely is necessary (you spit in it twice a day!), that leaving wet laundry in the washing machine for three days is a bad idea (do you like wearing mold?), and that the litter box really does need to be scooped more than once every six weeks (most living creatures prefer not to shit in a pile of their own shit). You actually think you could one day fly to Mars and help establish the first Martian colony, but cleaning is a conspiracy.
No, I’m not trying to control you. No, I didn’t make it up. And no, it’s not all based on my schedule, nor was it the previous 15 times I asked you to do it. This is basic, taught-in-home-ec, being-a-grownup shit.
And guess what? I don’t like it either, but I do it anyway. So suck it up, buttercup.
3. “I don’t know how,” or “I’m not good at it.”
You don’t know how… I don’t even know how to respond to that, except with a look of utter disbelief. But I can tell you that stuffing everything in a box and shoving it into a dark corner under the stairs does not constitute cleaning.
And you’re right. You’re not good at it—not everything, anyway. But that’s because you half-ass it. Grudgingly, dragging your feet, grumbling under your breath the whole time.
You could be good at it—you could be good at so much more—if you just tried.
4. It won’t be good enough for you, so why should I bother?
Okay, I admit it. I’m a perfectionist. I’m neurotic and detail oriented and fastidious. I like the rug to be parallel to the couch, and the couch to be parallel to coffee table. It bothers me when the K cup is left in the Keurig. I have to have the right amount of blankets on top of me when I go to bed, along with the right amount of white noise and the right amount of fluff in my pillow. Yes, I have have unattainably high standards, and yes, I’m hyper-critical—but mostly of myself.
Maybe it won’t be up to my standards. Hell, most of the time, I fall short of my own standards. But if you really, truly give it your best shot, that won’t matter.
5. It’s a weekday, and I had to work all day. I don’t want to do work at home, too.
And you think I do?
6. It’s a weekend, and I had to work all week. I just want to relax.
Don’t we all? But if you aren’t going to do anything during the week, and you don’t do anything over the weekend, when will you do it?
Oh, right. You won’t. I will.
7. It’s my ADD; I keep getting distracted. I can’t help it!
I get it. Dealing with mental issues is tough, and it takes a lot of willpower and work and effort to plow through them. But you’re not the only one who struggles: I get physically and emotionally anxious if everything that needs to get done doesn’t get done (on top of everything else I’m physically and emotionally anxious about). I am still trying to learn how to let things go—for my own health, if nothing else. But if you love me, wouldn’t you want to do whatever you could to make that better, rather than make it worse?
Bottom line: Even if you get distracted in the middle of something, you’ll still have done more than you would have if you hadn’t tried.
8. I’m too tired/I have a headache/I’m not feeling well.
I get that, too. The difference is, in spite of the fact that I rarely feel like I’ve gotten enough sleep, I still get up at a decent time on the weekends (and obviously during the week) to get things done. I still feed and walk the dogs, because they’re, like, alive. I still go to the grocery store and make dinner and pay the bills. I still scrub the toilet and pull weeds. And I still work out on most days. Even though I’m tired.
Plus, when you suddenly have a headache or are coming down with a cold only after I ask for your help with something, I have a hard time believing that you’re actually not feeling well. Like the little girl who cried wolf.
9. I didn’t notice it was dirty.
Sometimes when I get to my destination and climb out of my car, I realize I have no idea how I got there. I didn’t notice the traffic lights or the turn signal of the car in front of me. Maybe not consciously, anyway, because I’ve obviously arrived safely, but I was completely zoned out. Kind of scary, yes, but that’s a topic for another day. Bottom line is I’ve been driving long enough that it’s become a kind of muscle memory.
So why do you need to see the brown ring around the toilet bowl or the tumbleweeds of dog fur blowing across the hardwood floor? It’s been a week or two or seventeen since it’s been cleaned. Which means it probably needs to be cleaned again. So for crying out loud, clean it!
10. I have to poop.
Oh, how I wish I had a magical colon that produced poop precisely when I was confronted with something I didn’t want to do!
Actually, truth be told, I’d prefer a functional magic wand. But, alas, I do not have either. In any case, this excuse is a load of literal crap. Yeah, sometimes I bet you really do have to poop. But for a half hour? Bullshit.
I ask for help all the time. But the truth is, I shouldn’t have to. I shouldn’t even think of it as help, and neither should he. This is his home as much as it is mine. He lives here as much as I do. He makes as much of a mess as I do—often more. This is about synergy, about support, about picking up your partner’s slack when they’re overwhelmed, about contributing not only to our home but to the health of our relationship.
Yeah, I get that it’s not just him. This is a societal issue based on old-fashioned beliefs around gender roles. This is how he was raised, how a lot of men were raised. This is what we are told is something that men do (or don’t do, as it were), and it’s in their DNA. They can’t help it, and we should let it go.
But that’s just an excuse. Would you rather be like everyone else—or would you rather be better?
