I have been known to wrangle the remote with whatever is nearby. My first and second toe have amazing grasping ability. I turn my couch cushions every week to fool visitors into thinking there’s not a permanent butt indention. Lazy has never had anything on me. My spirit animal is the sloth. If I could manage life from bed I would.
Until the great COVID of 2020 set in. Laziness has upped a notch. I would call bullshit had I not hovered above myself watching in disgust.
I sigh. A lot. Mostly at the thought of moving from couch to chair to bed. I hoist myself, with sound, for a trip to the fridge. My generally terrible diet has gone the way of the dinosaur as now only things that can be opened and dropped into my piehole make the cut.
Two computers, one for work and one for Netflix, sit side by side on the tea table in front of the couch. The table is pulled close enough to hold my calves and feet. They’re too lazy to bend. A fuzzy binky rests nearby in case it’s chilly. I’ll adjust when I get up for candy.
Whole series of shows are digested. The most recent–Good Witch, a Hallmark offering. Thought being: Perhaps a perky, widowed heroine with magical powers might pull me from my slump, challenge me to walk, yoga at home, or write like the professional I masquerade to be. No such luck. Instead, I dream of being Cassie with Sam waltzing into my life, knowing how to cook, running a store and somehow intuiting the thoughts of strangers. Not a move is made to make anything happen. Pfft.
I still get up super early. Instead of writing I catch up on reality television and what those housewives are up to while quarantining. Evidently, makeup artists, hair stylists, nail techs and dressers are immune from virus ravages as the girls remain coiffed and ready for closeups. Beloved makeup calls me and I flip it off as I walk by, grabbing the same sundress as yesterday ‘cuz I don’t have to wear a bra or panties. My left boob, the larger of two, jumps out every now and then. Sometime I re-tuck, sometimes not.
The only time best pal mascara and I date is when there’s a Zoom meeting. I wave at co-workers as if I still have a personality but move the computer back a bit as my head is overlarge and so are my pores. I’ve learned to do my own hair but question why I bother each time my arms tire mid-dry. I am indeed Scarlett convinced I can do it tomorrow.
And with each tomorrow, I wake thinking, “What will I do today?” And then remember. Nothing. I’ll pick at my already chapped lips and stare at my short, stubby nails and sigh. A lot. Seems you can put a girl in quarantine but you can’t make her take advantage of it.
There are those learning new skills, clocking 10,000 steps per day, shaving their legs and reconnecting with old friends. I redecorate in my head, take baths and sigh. A lot. I started out strong–outlined a new book, created all kinds of new initiatives for work and cooked like a banshee. Somewhere I slowed to sloth speed and got stuck.
No longer do I pray for Calgon to take me away. Instead I request a bb gun shot to the ass to get me in gear. This behavior is how they find old ladies dead in a chair nearly mummified, cats nibbling on toes.
On Monday I see Hair Goddess V. Maybe a cut and color is the ticket. Perhaps I’ll burst forth like a wild mustang with the gate left ajar, sprinting for the hills never to be seen again except in whispers and ghostly sightings. Or maybe I’ll just have great hair to show the skittish tabby. I do know the countdown is on. Return to the office is imminent. Can lunches and meetings and nails and sheath dresses and pearls be far behind?
Perhaps there’s a lesson. Could it be sometimes you gotta just tuck in your boob and move on?