For years I have fantasized about uninterrupted swaths of time. I’d hole up on the couch and watch bad movies, write that novel I keep tossing about, collect my poems into anthologies and submit them to publishers, read all the great books lingering around the house, and survive on takeout.
Well, my friends, it has been four days of that life, and I have to admit, it ain’t all that. My butt is rapidly taking on the shape of my couch cushion. My favorite pillow is flattening out. The dishes are piling a little high in the sink, but standing up long enough to wash them seems overwhelming. I have eaten soup and takeout for days. And I am starting to grow a little tired of these four walls. The phone rings fairly consistently. My mom, the sisters, friends, and assorted relatives have all called for the latest.
The latest is pretty dull. There was a Law & Order marathon. Yes, I ate. Yes, I slept. Yes, I can go up and down my stairs again now. I haven’t been sick since the surgery. I’m dialing down to ibuprofen when the soreness hits. I took a shower and took off the bandages and washed the stitches out with soap and water like instructed.
My only reprieve? The blessed saint BC. He called yesterday to hear the latest and when he heard I was losing it here on isolation island, he hopped in the car and came over. And after an hour of couching, encouraged me to put onb real pants and shoes. We made a very slow and hunched over trip up the two blocks to the convenience store- bought ice cream and brought it back to the couch. And to take the new guts out for a spin, we ate the whole container. And he stayed until his evening cocktail plans, entertaining me with stories from the outside world.
But today, I’m back to the couch. I feel better. Really I do. But not better enough to drag out the craft box in the spare bedroom. I tried- until a gut spasm discouraged me.
Tell me something interesting. Anything. Something from outside my living room. These four walls aren’t getting any less dull.