Six weeks after giving birth, my baby was round as a seal pup on my fat-laden breastmilk and the result was a massive, roll-covered infant. Adorable, yes? Convenient, no.
Silly, naive me didn’t think twice about my body and what it’d been through pushing a baby out of it, so when I bent over the middle backseat of a sedan (the safest place in a car, natch) while holding a 20lb baby in its 15lb carseat I wasn’t prepared for the pop and ting I felt from my lower back. But there it was. I was fucked.
Months of chiropractic work, physical therapy, X-rays and MRI’s later, it was determined that I had two bulging discs — not the worst diagnosis ever, but certainly not great. It was a relief to be told there really was something wrong with me, though my exhusband never seemed to really believe me and, I suspect, suspected I claimed constant back pain just to get out of certain chores.
Anything that required lower back strength threatened my back (mowing the lawn, lifting a heavy trash bag, emptying the dishwasher) I would ask him to help with about every 9th time lest he feel overwhelmed by my injuries (I wouldn’t want to put him out, after all). And the #1 chore that I needed help with the most was vacuuming. Pushing that stupid, heavy, upright thing would send me in spasms in about a minute without fail.
The sad thing about that was that I actually loved to vacuum. I loved to see the bits of debris disappear beneath the roar of the engine and the clean tracks left behind. Far more rewarding that cleaning toilets, to be sure. It was work accomplished!
By the time I moved out 2 and a half years after my diagnosis and near constant pain, I had just resigned myself to the pain and the obligatory chores that caused them, so imagine my surprise when my young lover first offered to vacuum for me when I told him of my cleaning troubles.
First he did it in his shorts, then just his underwear, then I required nudity. Eventually, there was a dress code — which still stands today — of my panties. I pick them out according to my mood. Sometimes they’re lacy, sometimes they’re not. It’s whatever I want to see him in. Like big, fat stripes.
It’s worth mentioning that since I met TN in November of 2012, I have only vacuumed for myself maybe three times (to truck loads of regret, I might add). He has never complained and always done it cheerfully. For being so young, he is extremely grown up in ways I’ve never experienced (my ex is 14 years his senior).
Other things he does without complaint include taking out my trash, reaching high things, helping me make the bed, moving furniture, and being my financial adviser. I’ve never been with anyone so generous in my life, so stalwartly devoted to taking care of me. It’s kind of incredible. Almost as incredible as TN in my panties with a vacuum handle in his hand.
I’ve totally hit the Houseboy Jackpot.