I am currently on a campaign to talk Dave into being a mailman (sorry, letter carrier).  We have a close friend that has offered several times to help him schedule the test and in my humble opinion, now is the time for us to begin our plans to take over the world looking for a job that at the very least, won't suck the breath and life from our souls.  And besides, who else would look cuter in snazzy little postal shorts? I'll tell you who. Gabe Kapler, that's who! But I digress.

From what I gather, he spends a good portion of his day wishing he were playing online poker outdoors.  Our friend's recent foray into battling motor vehicles (still single ladies. still. single.) has hurt my case just a bit, and admittedly we aren't thrilled with the seniority schedule that would ensure a few months trapsing through unfamiliar territory, but isn't a few weeks of culture shock worth years of exposure to sunlight and paid federal holidays?

Better than anyone maybe, I understand the frustration of having a job you have a passion for that doesn't give you the chance to afford life's little luxuries like food and shelter and lipgloss.  And I made a pretty good career convincing myself I was passionate enough about something else to turn it into a lifelong endeavor.  But it always seems like the thing you want to do is never the thing you can do to pay the bills.  So finding some sort of happy medium, especially if it's happier on the medium side of the food, shelter and lipgloss, isn't so bad.

My reasons admittedly aren't merely altruistic.  Dave in a secure government-like job would offer me hope that one day soon I could escape the mind-numbing monotony I experience on the daily basis.  But doesn't that benefit him too?  Of course it does!  He'd get things like gourmet dinner and clean laundry, with nary a finger lifted.  He'd thrill to the joy of the blinding gleam of a spotless kitchen  He'd never have to rid our basement of the by-products of mammal kinship.  I'm totally lying. He'd come home each night to find me buried in empty plastic Starbucks cups and manuscripts, ranting about a Lord knows what.  But just imagine, what spectacular calves he would have from all that walking! What a stud he'd be from such tremendous amounts of physical activity. We have proof ladies. We have proof.