Later Gator

So picture it:

I am putting away Christmas.  The sparkly purple, blue and silver balls are carefully placed back in their packaging.  The stockings are folded.  Joseph, Mary, and the Baby are sleeping in their beds of styrofoam for another year.  Everything is nestled neatly together into their tupperware containers like a real life game of Tetris.  I have shoved the Christmas tree into its box and taped it shut with enough tape to build a house, it would seem.  

All the while I'm on the phone with my mom.  Geoff comes into the room briefly.  "Hey, hun," he smiles.  "I'll take that box."  

As he starts to reach around me I'm thinking Sweet.  He's going to take this stuff up to the storage area above the garage.  Oh, wait.  I actually said it out loud.  

Now I see he's holding an empty box and heading back to his office.  "I'll take those boxes up later."

Later.  Mom and I muse over this word for a moment.  This word that was surely concocted by men to get out of labor.  Later is not a time.  It is not a place.  It is an idea. I promises no action any time in the near future.  It leaves you no room to probe them in a few hours: "Why haven't you done this?" "Geez, hun, I said I'd do it later."

Suffice it to say, I put the boxes away myself.  And I think I'm banning the word "later" from my home.  

*Please note that while the preceding situation did unfold as described, this blog post is intended to be read from an amused perspective, not an annoyed one.  Picture the "Committee of Men," if you will, gathered around musing over the genius of their new word.  Later, honey.  Later...

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