Mrs. Brad and I were taking our regular Saturday morning hike around our community on a recent warm day. We walk, talk and comment on our neighbor's houses. We greet people and shake our heads at those who walk past us and avoid eye contact.
We'd talked about our kids, jobs and plans for the day. We asked some questions that we would later Google ("What are the main predators for coyotes?" "What's the difference between England, Great Britain and the UK?" "Did Hawaiians invent the ukelele?"). We were getting our exercise, sharing our lives and having a good time.
And then . . .
"If I die before you, I want you to promise me something," she said.
Geez. Out of nowhere!
While on a relaxed walk, Mrs. Brad was asking me to promise to do something if she dies first. Things had suddenly gotten deep.
Side story: A few years ago, she announced, "After you die, I'm going to . . . " I interrupted her. "What makes you think you'll outlive me?" She looked at me and started again, "After you die, I'm going to make it easier for our sons. I'll move close to them if they don't live here."
Nothing dramatically changed since that day, so I don't know why her outlook changed. She has no fatal disease and I haven't discovered the fountain of youth. But suddenly she was extracting a promise from me.
I started anticipating her request. The most likely ask was for me to not be stubborn but to allow our sons to take care of me. That was by far the most likely request.
It was unlikely she'd have an opinion on whether I'd remarry or grow a beard or become vegan. What did she want me to promise?
After waiting for me to say OK (which I did by saying, "OK."), she made her request:
"Promise that you'll get professional housekeeping."
What?
What?
My wife, to whom I've been married nearly 40 years, who I fell in love with when I was 18, who I partnered with to raise two sons with me and who has been my teammate in every area of life since the Reagan administration (or since Chris Brown was the Giants third baseman, depending on your historic reference point), had one request for me if she dies first. That I hire a housekeeper.
I was baffled. While I don't see all the dirt she does, I'm not a slob. I do the dishes and vacuum and pick up the house regularly. I did all of our laundry for decades. I'm the grocery shopper. But if she dies first, her first concern is not that I let our sons help me, but that I let a housekeeper clean the house once a week or once a month or whatever.
Second side note: There's no problem with hiring professional housekeeping. It makes sense. We've done it. But that's the thing that most concerns her?
I was befuddled. It was an easy request Of course, I'll do that (as far as she knows).
Later, I wondered why the request shocked me so much. Why did it seem to come from left field (Giants left fielder the year we married: Jeffrey Leonard. HacMan!).
I landed on five possible reasons the request surprised me:
1. I've watched too many movies where a character makes a romantic request of their loved one while dying. In the real world, maybe people have practical plans. Such as keeping their posthumous house clean.
2 Mrs. Brad fears I'll have people over after she dies and they'll judge her if my house is dirty.
3. It's crazy.
4. Mrs. Brad secretly signed up for a multilevel marketing scheme involving house cleaners and told her "manager" that I had agreed to pay for housekeeping at a future date.
5. I'm actually a slob but don't realize it.
I don't which is true (oddsmakers have No. 5 as the heavy favorite). I just know the next time Mrs. Brad wants me to promise something if she dies first, I'll be ready for anything. ("That you'll eat salad once a week." "That you'll take up horseshoes." "That you'll never wear suspenders." "That you'll keep your eyebrows trimmed.")
In the meantime, I'll search the house for a document where she added me to a list of people she's registered for future housekeeping services.
Maybe I found a loophole: If I'm truly going to let our sons help me, they can clean my house.
Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment