My husband recently put an app on his phone that counts down the days until he retires. He thinks he’s retiring in 2,500 days, give or take. He’s so happy about it I don’t have the heart to tell him that I’ve put us so far into debt being sick for so long that he’s likely never retiring.
I’d love to shake him into reality one day when we’re in the toilet paper aisle of Wal-Mart. Honey, do you really think Claude over there wants to be stocking Charmin instead of going fishing or watching The View? No. His wife probably sucked him dry with MRI bills too. Your countdown app is only letting you know when you’ll be starting your second career making minimum wage at a boring retail job so we don’t have to eat cat food for dinner.
But since I’m a helpful, loving, ray of motherfucking sunshine kind of wife I don’t say those things to him. I just let him live in his happy bubble. Besides, the men in his family don’t live very long, so he’ll more than likely drop dead before he retires. See? Helpful!
His app did give me an idea, though. For another app. A countdown app. But one rooted in reality, not dreamy delusion. My app counts down the minutes, hours, days, weeks, and even years of your life you’ve lost to the aggravating minutiae of life.
It doesn’t give you anything to look forward to. There’s no pie in the sky daydreams about spending your days sipping margaritas with your toes in the sand. It’s raw. It’s real. It’s a punch in the face. Ok, by now you’ve realized I’m no motherfucking ray of sunshine. Just be thankful you’re not my husband.
I have no idea how to build this app. I know nothing of algorithms or mathematical principles. I can’t code. Frankly, I’m not even that adept at Facetime. But this idea is still genius, so I’m rolling with it and I’m starting with my life.
- I’ve lost roughly 12 hours of this life convincing myself a lipstick I want to buy is not the EXACT shade of pinky brown I already have 15 tubes of at home.
- 17 years of my life GONE to sitting in traffic trying to get in and around the Charlotte area. That may seem impossible considering that I’ve only lived here for two years, but I promise you the math works out on this one.
- At least a week and a half’s worth of time has been lost to giving too much of a fuck about what others think of me. And that’s just this month and we’re not even halfway through.
- 85+ hours of screenshotting memes thinking I’ll send them to friends, but don’t. Then, I just end up deleting them when Apple tells me my Cloud is too full.
- In total, I’ve spent three weeks’ time picking up dog hair tumbleweeds while making a vow to myself that I will brush the dog more often.
- 19 days of time scouring the internet for research to make a cogent argument against your cousin’s brother’s stepmom’s conspiracy theory claims made on Facebook. At least 24 hours of that is me realizing the futility of the whole thing and deciding to shoot the bird at my computer screen instead.
- 23 years! Half my life, gone to just picking up socks around the house and turning them right side out and throwing them in the washer.
- I’ve spent a total of 6-ish weeks of my life thinking I was fat only to have time lapse, get fatter, and then realize I was kind of thin back then.
- Easily 8 months of my life has been devoted to walking the dollar aisle at Target and putting $50 worth of crap in my cart, deciding that’s a stupid idea, abandoning my cart, and going home to watch T.V.
- 72 solid hours has been sucked from my grasp cleaning dried up, hardened shreds of cheddar on the grater. And I can’t even eat cheese, so that one really stings.
- Infinite hours trying to pretend like I’m not murdering you with my eyes when you ask me if I have your shopper loyalty card or if I have coupons. Do you want to open a line of credit for that pack of Skittles? You’ll save 5%! Or what my zip code is or my phone number, address, blood type of my great grandmother seven times removed. FUCK YOU I JUST WANT TO BUY THIS THING AND GO HOME!!
- A day and a half of eye rolls at bullshit stories people tell about their children. Yes, I’m completely certain your little Braidyn prepared the family taxes at the age of three. It must be because you didn’t fill him full of toxic vaccines like I did to my kids. Got it, Karen.
- 11 months of yelling, “Shut it off, you’re done!” to my son after I get sick of hearing him screaming because he lost at Fortnite.
So, let’s do that math, shall we? Carry the one. Divide by X. Downward dog into chaturanga. Gesundheit.
Yes. According to my calculations, all the tiny annoyances of life should have killed me three years ago. Which means, I’m not even alive right now to make this app.
But it also means my husband may be able to retire when he wants. Now I’m starting to understand why he leaves the cheese to harden in the grater instead of washing it. Shrewd move, husband. Shrewd move.