As An Olympic Curler I Resent Being Asked To Sweep Out The Garage

Honey, I feel like we’ve been over this a thousand times.

 

On a certain level I can understand how it might seem reasonable for you to ask me, your Olympic curler husband, to sweep out the garage. Sure, it could use a good airing out in there, that I acknowledge; it’s dusty as hell, there are bark scraps from last winter’s firewood, the kids’ toys are fucking everywhere, and there’s no room to park the car, which, when you think about it, really is the central purpose of having a garage in the first place. I hear you loud and clear on all points.

 

But, can I ask you to take a minute and see this from my side, and consider the irony– actually, no, the breathtaking audacity of your request. Sweep out the garage? Are you fucking serious?

Not to keep score or anything, but I would hope it’s readily apparent how much I already contribute around the house: I take out the garbage, I vacuum, I cut the grass. I do whatever it takes around, whatever you ask! But to SWEEP OUT THE MOTHERFUCKING GARAGE? I mean–what kind of degrading assault on my professional dignity is this? I am an Olympic athlete, a curler, a taut specimen of physical grace and power. I can’t just set that aside and bring the sacred rudiments of my craft to bear on such a menial and humiliating task. I’m not just some school janitor with a set of keys jangling from my belt over here!

And to use a regular old push broom? Like I’m cleaning up after a goddamn circus animal? Have you no care whatsoever on how this would corrupt and possibly even destroy my form? Do you even know how long it’s taken me to perfect my stroke rate? Proper sweeping technique is forged over the course of decades, it is ergonomically pure, it is exacting, it requires special shoes, it demands ramrod posture, controlled precision and surgically calibrated intervals of surface pressure. It is an angular and shoulder-driven form, not all flinging elbows and randomly brushing around debris in a pair of flip flops with whatever Home Depot piece of fucking GARBAGE broom happens to be lying around.

Not to mention, what if one of the neighbors walks by and sees me? Can you imagine it? “Hey, Chuck, looks like you’re finally puttin’ that sweet stroke of yours to good use, hahaha…” God God in heaven I would impale myself on the broom handle from the crippling shame of it. I know in your heart you don’t want this disgrace and emotional pain for me. Can we figure out some creative way around this?

OK, OK, wait, honey don’t walk away…I can see that I’m not getting through to you somehow. Just hear me out for one more second. Can we do a simple thought exercise? Let’s imagine I’m a Formula 1 race car champion. Would you expect me to take the kids Go-Kart racing? Of course not!   Or imagine for a second I am renowned two-time Tour de France cycling champion Alberto Contador, and that you are Mrs. Contador. We are on vacation and you see a quaint little pond with one of  those swan boats for rent. Would you seriously ask Alberto Contador to hunch down into that little swan boat and start pedaling away, his exquisitely sculpted thighs hunched up around his chin and flopping around all gracelessly, like a pair of beached mackerels? I didn’t think so!

Wait, hey, come back! Is there nothing I can say to save myself from this calamity of embarrassment? Can’t one of the kids do it? What if I just go out and buy a power washer and use that instead?