Well, yesterday was the monthly lunch with my co-workers. There are seven of us and we kind of keep it a secret mostly because we don’t want Fred to find out. If you knew Fred you’d understand. Everyone has a Fred in their lives. All of us Secret Lunchers are parents, except for young Billy. And after hearing us go on and on about the “joys” of parenthood I’ll be surprised if Billy will even risk having sex again. We’re horrible. Not horrible parents, just horrible in our retelling of parenting stories. I should tape record it one day and play it back for all of us. Probably wouldn’t change a thing.
I like these co-workers of mine. They’re all nice. Not anyone I’d want to socialize with, but that list is getting smaller and smaller everyday anyway. What I truly love about having lunch with this crew is my discovery that their kids are so much worse than mine. I know, hard to believe, right? I’m telling you, I get a warm, cozy feeling everytime I hear them tell a story about how their kid called them a name, or flipped them the bird, or took the car in spite of the parent saying no and even taking the keys. The smart, bratty kid made a spare set without them knowing. I hate him, but I respect him.
See, my kids, though I complain a lot about them, are deep down — I mean DEEP DOWN — good kids. My wife and I did a pretty good job raising them, in spite of the fact that we probably don’t care enough. About parenting, I mean. We love the kids. Certainly enough that when it’s time for them to put us away, they’ll plant us in a half-way crappy retirement home instead of one run by Satan. And that’s all I can ask for.
So while I enjoy the warm roll with butter, the french dip and fries, and the camaraderie of these lunches, what I truly enjoy is knowing my lot in life isn’t as bad as these parents’. I still don’t want to go home, but when I do, I’m glad it’s my home and not one of these shlubs’ homes. By the way, I’m writing this from my closet so my family doesn’t even know I’m home. Hear that, Billy?