He lives a life of guilt.
Not an overwhelming guilt. The kind that haunts you in the aftermath of depravity or debauchery resolves over time as you are further and further removed from your actions. But rather, his is a pervasive guilt. A constant hum underneath the reverberations of everyday life. Low enough that it can be shoved to the peripheral, temporarily ignored. Nevertheless it's always there, eating his life as it monitors his decisions. The voyeuristic sadist in his mind chips away, piece by piece, sculpting him into a misshapen ghoul- a specter of his younger self.
Even now as he sits, watching TV, ostensibly relaxing after dinner and a hard day at work. He tells himself he is “spending time” with his wife, “recovering” from the day, and that he has “earned” the break.
But he knows he could be doing something more consequential with her. They could play cards, or chess like they used to. Back when they were first dating, they would cook together, play games, and go for walks. He should be doing that! Not sitting in a chair next to her on the sofa. He glances over at her as she scrolls on her phone, then turns his attention back to the TV. The host is interviewing a singer who is about to perform, but first they will show a montage about her difficult life.
He hears the hum of guilt under the sad music on the TV.
What would his forefathers think? They knew hard work. His job is cushy by comparison. He doesn’t have any kids and they had large families to raise! His whole generation is soft. Knows nothing of their hardships. Who is he to claim he’s “earned” this rest; that he “deserves” a break? What a muffin he is!
He wants a beer. In fact, he knows he is going to get one. He plays this game with himself most nights. He’s full from dinner, so he sits and waits as the television lights dance across his eyes. The detectives quipping over dead extras, brilliant misunderstood doctors solving impossible cases, and reality TV stars creating drama. If he watches long enough, the feeling of being full will subside and he’ll pretend to wrestle with the decision of whether or not to grab a beer.
“He really shouldn’t,” the angel on his shoulder makes a case for the kangaroo court over which his willpower presides. He has gained too much weight. He skipped exercise again this evening because he was too tired. He listened to that podcast that explained how you don’t get quality rest even when you’ve had just one beer. And after all, isn’t feeling tired the root cause of his problem? Why make things worse with alcohol?
The argument is good- both valid and sound. Still he knows it won’t affect the outcome. Once his satiation subsides, he’ll pause the show and head for the fridge. “No snacks tonight though,” the angel tries to save face. “Sustained,” his willpower agrees before calling an end to the hearing.
But really, maybe he shouldn’t. He’s had a tightness in his chest lately. It’s on the left side, by his heart. He knows it is likely the anxiety that builds up from the stress of work, financial strain- and the constant guilt. But he fears that maybe, just maybe it is a heart attack lying in wait. Peering out from the bushes behind his ribcage, just waiting for the opportune time to pounce.
Maybe the guilt is good. Sure it doesn’t feel good, but it has a point doesn’t it? What’s wrong with focusing on self-improvement? He should get out more, find a hobby, talk to his wife, join a local recreation team- maybe bowling or pickleball! Maybe the guilt is telling him there is more to life than work, beer, and television. The show is boring anyway. There’s no time like the present to make a change. Seize the day! The time is now!
He looks over to his wife, a renewed spark in his eye. She scrolls on her phone, not even aware of the story on their shared screen.
“We should do something,” he declares, catching her attention.
Without looking up, she shrugs, “Meh, I’m OK. Maybe tomorrow.”
“OK.” Tomorrow sounds good.
He turns back to the show; the internal hum ramps up a notch. He shouldn’t have put her on the spot like that. He shouldn’t make his needs her problem. The good news is, he doesn’t feel so full anymore.
Without pausing the show, he heads to the kitchen and cracks a beer. “You want anything?” he calls to her, grabbing a handful of peanuts from the cupboard, “OK, but just a handful, not the whole container,” the angel scolds.
From the living room she responds, “I’m OK.” The sound from the TV stops. She has paused it for him. So sweet.
“You didn’t have to pause, I could hear it,” he sets down his can on the coffee table and reaches for the remote.
“It’s OK. I didn’t want you to miss anything.”
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