That’s What They Say

A few months ago, my wife and I purchased a home in a suburb of Louisville. We’re happy to have our own house again, but as any homeowner will agree, maintaining a home is a lot of work. All the maintenance I used to hand off to property managers, I now have to do myself. In case that’s not bad enough, I also have to put up with input from a bunch of unnamed experts who go by the collective name of “they”.

It happened last Saturday. It was a nice afternoon and I intended to lounge around with a margarita. As I stood at the bar measuring a jigger of tequila, my wife said, “They say you ought to reseed the lawn in the spring and fall.”

I looked up from my drink shaker. “Who are they?”

“You know, them,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“What are you talking about?”

“Them. Those people.” She turned back to her copy of “Redbook”.

I played along. “Oh, him!”

“Right, that guy.”

I put down the drink shaker and placed the tequila back on the shelf. “They” had just ruined a Saturday afternoon. I’d have to go out and buy a seed spreader, seed, and fertilizer, then spend the rest of the weekend sweating out in the bone-wearying sun – all because of them!

The other day, it happened again. My wife and I were talking about our first winter in Louisville and how cozy our house would be when we started to use the fireplace. My mind wandered. I dreamed about leaning back in the recliner with my feet up, the heat from the flames nipping my toes.

It was a pleasant dream until my wife snapped me out of it. “They say you ought to clean the chimneys before you use them.”

The imaginary fire burnt my soles. We have two fireplaces, so that would be twice the cost. “Is that what they say?”

“That’s what they say,” she said.

I had to suck it up. “Can’t argue with them.”

What else could I do? “They” had spoken. “They” were the experts and I couldn’t disagree. I had to accept their decision. I didn’t even have a chance to enter into a dialogue with them. Whoever they were, they brooked no dissent.

A few years ago, “they” had even had something to say about child-rearing. I remembered back to when my wife and I were trying to wean Colleen off of diapers. She was waking us up in the middle of the night, her sheets soaked, and we weren’t getting much sleep.

“They say you shouldn’t let kids drink water before they go to bed,” said my wife.

I lifted my head up as I deposited an armful of pee-stained sheets in the laundry bin. “I wish they would butt out.”

“Who?”

“Them!”

I resented the intrusion. After all, who were they to tell me how to raise my kids, right? Then I started to see the connection between the gallon of water she kept on her nightstand and these late night micturitions. Finally, the light bulb went off in the old Roberooney’s cobwebbed cranium.

“Never mind,” I said. “We’ll give it a try.”

Chalk another one up for the busybodies. I didn’t care that they were right. I just wanted “them” to leave me alone. I was tired of it. They had been after me my whole life. Back when I was a kid, my mother used to refer to them all the time.

I’d be at the beach, dying for a swim after lunch, when she’d say, “They say you shouldn’t swim after eating.”

I’d be ready to bite into a chocolate bar: “They say too much candy rots your teeth.”

I’d want to stay in and read a book: “They say kids need fresh air.”

As far as I was concerned, they were a bunch of bullies and I’d had enough. I wanted to stand up to them, fight back, but how could I when they never showed their faces?

How about you? Do you know them? Have you met them? Who are they? Them? That guy? Those people? If you see them, please tell them to leave me alone.