Mr. Comfortable

The comfort is real.

I admit it: I'm lazy. No, not your ordinary lazy, but six pack Corona beer passed out on a Caribbean beach lazy.

Every day (I'm not kidding) when I come home from work, methodically, I'll turn off my brain like a Republican in a voting booth. Then, I'll quickly change out of my jeans and button down shirt, into cozy sweatpants, a sweatshirt, fuzzy bathrobe in preparation for placing my behind on the recliner or couch with an extra fuzzy blanket draped over my lower torso. Unless nature is calling or it's meal time, I'm not getting up. My day is done!

Due to my attire, my wife refers to me as "Mr. Comfortable." Believe me, I'm not ashamed. I am comfortable, damn it! I'm the Hugh Hefner of my abode, minus the tobacco pipe, grotto and naked women frolicking about. Naturally, my lethargic mode annoys my wife to no end. Everyday, she'll get in my face—inches from, in fact—shouting at a pitch that resembles Ethel Merman: "Get your ass up from the couch and do something! Anything!" Her voice pierces through drywall, cement and steel, traveling outside 360° into any house within a 2 mile radius. Any bird having the unfortunate luck of flying over our house falls from the sky like a Russian missile getting taken out by a Patriot Missile. Neighbors immediately open their windows in unison singing, "There's No Business Like Show Business” in spite. I'm surprised anyone remembers Ethel.

Right now, I'm in the “Mr. Comfortable” mode, sitting on my couch feeling oh, so comfortable. I could be in Kyiv during an air raid, and it would be near impossible for me to physically get off the couch finding safety unless my comfy couch or recliner comes with me. I've been seriously thinking about saving up for a custom built couch, one which would include a 4 cylinder engine and wheels. I could travel everywhere without ever getting off the couch! Under consideration is adding a pop up bar under the armrest allowing me to easily tailgate at football games. I’m convinced this couch should easily qualify for a handicap placard allowing access to convenient parking at football games and strip malls.

The genesis for "Mr. Comfortable" are my two daughters. I call them “influencers.” You see, they used to come home from work or school and before anything else, they’ve immediately changed into comfortable wear such as I described, usually as quick as Samantha on Bewitched twitched her nose. To this day, they're also into that trend of wearing flannel pajama pants along with gross looking crocks, which they'll wear even when they go out for a quick errand. I have no guts: you'll never find me wearing that ugly combination in public (says me now, right?) My current status of dress is known as “dad style, long term,” which consists of wearing multiple varieties of cargo shorts, white socks and white New Balance sneakers. Before you know it, I'll find myself in the next and last phase which finds me adorned in polyester leisure suits (which carry a heavy mothball fragrance), while on the prowl for early bird specials in a car which perpetually has its left turn signal on.

Recently, there was one night in which I plopped down on the couch the second I walked in the house from work. I was mentally and physically exhausted, nodding off once I put my head back, neglecting to change into "Mr. Comfortable.” To say my wife was shocked and concerned is an understatement. Assuming I came down with a high fever, she felt my forehead with the palm of her hand, then made an appointment for the next morning at local walk-in clinic. I’m surprised she didn’t start cooking chicken soup.

Soon after, I woke up, and with a groggy voice asked her to get my bathrobe. Sounding annoyed, she said, "If you want it that bad, get it yourself!" And I did. "You're a piece of work!" she replied in disgust. Nope! “I’m ‘Mr. Comfortable’ ” I reminded her.

You know what? After all these years of working my ass off and raising a family, I'm fully entitled to be "Mr. Comfortable." I thank my kids for teaching me valuable lessons in personal comfort. I know eventually, one day my wife will relent out of jealousy, becoming "Mrs. Comfortable." Oh, she will! And when she does, this time I'll get in her face shouting, "Get your ass up and do something!" using my newly found and booming Luciano Pavarotti voice.