Too tired to move

 How could I be so tired on a Monday night?

Would someone please step forward, wheel the trash can back into the garage, sort the mail, fold the laundry, throw a frozen pizza into the oven, unload the dishwasher, pay the cellphone bill, answer e-mails, answer phone mails, talk to the pharmacist about that prescription refill, change the light bulb in the bathroom, hunt for what's smelling in the refrigerator, water the plants, change my sheets, put a new roll of toilet paper in the dispenser, and feed my son?

I will be lounging on the sofa finishing the crossword puzzle. 

I wouldn't mind being carried to bed tonight, be changed into my pajamas and given a cup of hot milk and a thin-mint.  Once I am done snacking, I'd like my teeth cleaned with one of those little foam brushes they use in hospitals. 

And I'd like my beloved to get in his car and drive the twenty miles between his house and mine to sing me a lullaby.  I know this is too much to ask.  He already cooked dinner last night and swept the floors this morning.  He's already proven his good-guy-ness. 

It would be unfair to demand a long-distance lullaby and  tuck-in. I'll have to be a responsible adult.  I will have to drag myself out of this couch, brush my own teeth, trudge to the other end of the house and fall into bed. 

Or I'll stay on the couch, decide on which end of me to fit under the afghan (why do they make them so small anyway?) and hold out until my bladder bursts or my son wakes me up demanding lunch money.

Or I could call 911 and wait for the firemen to break through the front door and take me to bed on a stretcher.

Or I could crawl on my belly and get there before midnight.

I think I'll be the responsible adult.  But just this one time o.k?  Next time, someone steps up...