I never want to get out of bed anymore. Fuck all those people who get up at five AM to go for a run or whatever. Are their lives really better than mine? Sure they have less body fat, but they probably have fewer brain cells too. Sleep is important. 8 hours a night. Or is it 6? I got ‘em all beat at 10. Color me an overachiever.
Why is everyone so obsessed with people who climb mountains and shit? Is the metaphor on top of the physical achievement really that impressive? I’m going to start my own thrilling endeavor – living a full happy life in bed. I’ll do everything here – work, eat, rest. People can join me for breakfast in bed or a late night snack. This isn’t about being antisocial. It’s about me living my way. The way I want. The way I’m comfortable.
Because out there – that’s a doozy. The world is mean and demanding – there’s no respite for any of us. It’s relentless. There’s a whole industry devoted to getting people to relax – spa products, salad restaurants, getaways to Bali – but all that shit costs money, which adds to the stress. It’s a vicious cycle that we’re all buying into like fools. Lisa is so caught up in it, she doesn’t even realize she’s a hamster on a wheel. Destination: NOT relaxation.
Sometimes I hear Lisa doing her K-coffee routine and I think, I just can’t. Not today. I’d rather face plant into this pillow and rest for another hour than deal with Lisa’s judgment before she goes to work. She wouldn’t call it that, of course. She’s just “asking questions.” Like, “Are you going to do something today? Anything happening with the job search?” And my favorite on Saturdays, “Did you just wake up?” Of course I just woke up you bitch it’s Saturday if you can’t sleep in on the weekend then what’s the POINT? I dislike her.
Besides, I can look for a job right here in bed. Monster.com app for the win. I applied to two jobs this morning before falling back asleep. I’ll look again in a minute.
A life lived in bed. That will be the title of my memoir. All about the life and times of Meriwether Washington. That’s my pen name, I’ve decided. Wait, can you write a memoir under a pen name? I’ll be the first. See, already a trailblazer and I haven’t opened my eyes in an hour.
It would have been better if Damian had just come with me, but he’s the biggest dick of all. Fucker was actually relieved – RELIVED – when I lost the baby. Like he was being dismissed from jury duty or something. “Oh thank God,” he said. I should have punched him in the face.
But I didn’t because he’s not worth it. That would have been more work and all I wanted was my bed. My comfy, cozy sanctuary covered in fake feathers that my dad gave me. Dad would have bought me a crib. Baby and I could have both stayed in bed all day, right next to each other. And dad could bring me breakfast and bring me the baby for his breakfast and Damian could just go fuck himself.
Oh Daddy, I miss you. Fuck cancer. That’s the other thing bed is good for – crying. You can literally curl into the fetus position and no one calls you melodramatic because they can’t see your body under the covers. Where else can you feel that free?
I need to pee. Could I rethink my stance on bed pans? Ew, no. Gross. Fuck. Maybe I’ll get up and then reward myself with a cup of coffee from Lisa’s Keurig. If I take a K-cup from the box in her cupboard instead of her spinning display, she’ll never know. I haven’t had coffee since...well, since before. That damn doctor told me not to have any because of some study on miscarriages so I didn’t but it happened anyway. Fucking quack. They should take his license. What does he know?
I still have that card he gave me. Bereavement counseling. Fuck him. He doesn’t know me. I don’t need to talk about it. I need to stay in my bed. The pain will go away eventually. My fake down comforter will soak it up. I’m sure it’s already done me good these last few months. It’s a very good comforter.
Damn, now I really need to pee. Okay, here’s the plan. Bathroom, Lisa’s coffee, grab the Chinese leftovers, then back into bed. I can do that in 10 minutes tops.
I think a lot about my dad lately. What he would say if he saw me trapped in my bed. He never judged – not like Lisa. So what would he say? I can’t think of anything except that thing he always used to say on Sundays before getting me up for church. “Are you ready for a Sunday Fun Day?” It wasn’t that funny but I always laughed. He honestly thought going to church was fun. It wasn’t bad, but it certainly wasn’t a party. Dad started wearing bow ties to church later in life – just another way to make Sunday a fun day. I miss his bow ties.
Maybe I’ll go to church today. There’s an evening service on Wednesdays. It is Wednesday, right? Damn, it’s already 12:30 PM. I’ve been in bed all morning. If I add a shower to the end of my game plan, I can be out the door by two at least. Then it’s just four hours to kill before church. I’ll go see a movie or something. All the good ones are long these days. I’ll go see the one about that boy who grows up on film. I heard that one’s long.
Okay, here we go. Off for my adventure. Bye, bye comforter. My bed experiment will continue tomorrow. I know I can make it work if I really apply myself. For now, I’ll make Wednesday my fun day. Dad would be proud.