My Wife, the Cutest Little Painted Turtle Ever

So my wife was born in the year of the ox. And she is a little worker. Saturday mornings we’ll wake up, she’ll be so sleepy, the sun breaking into the room, the warmth of the down cover and I’ll wonder how I could make it so we could lie like that forever.

But just when I’m thinking it will last, a light clicks. No relishing the warmth of the bed, no us time to mess around. She looks at me so serious, maybe with a little smile, and says we have so much to do today, and is ready to hop out of bed and start getting everything done.

I have two choices. I can climb out with her, make some coffee, an omelet, and be the best mate ever. Or I can try and hold her in bed. Tell her how beautiful she is, try to activate a little sexy switch.

What a lamentable situation. Every part of my soul wants to make her so happy and join in her zeal for getting stuff done. But nine times out of ten its just not me. I can’t. I have to make a hail mary for sexy time or do-nothing-and-enjoy-it-time-in-bed.

If I try to stall, my brain flashes images of someone’s hand holding a turtle  above the ground. The person may be trying to connect with the turtle. But the turtle lives in a little world we can’t understand. It has much to do and waves it arms and legs trying with all it has to continue its business. I feel inhuman. Holding her back from the day. From greatness. So after a try or two, I succumb to my better self and join her in the day’s many obligations and I think about the reward of seeing such a satisfied little turtle at the end of the day. And then I will be a hero.

Photo courtesy of the Dakota Amphibian and Reptile Network.

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