In search of a purposeless day
Today I don’t want to do anything of any value at all. Well, I actually don’t mean that, because reading my newest book has value. What I mean is that I don’t want to think about politics, to worry about my internal flora and fauna, to contemplate all of the undone stuff around the house.
I think that I’d like to eat out. No dishes that way. I don’t want to think about what to cook and then cook it. I want to clean up afterwards even less. I don’t want to do laundry. Period. I don’t want to remember that there are five shirts hanging in the basement that need to be ironed. I don’t want to go to the store to buy the stuff on my shopping list. I would love to just stop in the craft store and wander, to go to the mall and pretend that my back and hip don’t hurt.
I’d like to have a day that stretches out endlessly to allow for this need for a day without purpose to accomplish my version of purposelessness.
So, you say, “What’s the problem. You’re retired?” Yes, retired is the word, but even more is the last syllable … “tired.” At least, when I was working, there were interesting challenges. Now? Thinking of what to cook for dinner for more than 50 years and then cooking and cleaning up … that wears on you, and not in a good way. Dusting? You know and have known for most of your adult life that it will all come back in a few hours, even if you call it patina. And, while I really don’t mind ironing, there are times when I would prefer that we either purchase non-wrinkling apparel or hire someone to do the deed.
Our laundry is in the basement, or maybe a better word is cellar. A cellar is a place where you store things and that is most assuredly the case in our house. Having filled up a barn, the cellar is now home to an assortment of memorabilia, the odd financial paper and boxes, all sorts of boxes, since “you never know when you will need a box.” (I’m quoting.) The washer and dryer are cozied into a corner next to the sink where I’ve carved out a small area for the loading and unloading of these appliances but, and I will broach no argument about this, dragging the dirty and clean items up and down two flights of stairs is no more enticing that thinking about what to cook.
Thanks to my botched hip replacement, (insert here unquotable words about the surgery) the laundry trek is not only mind-numbing, it hurts. A lot.
I have a rather long list of things that need fixing. Today I don’t want to think about that outlet that doesn’t work or the four boards in front of the shed that are heading for the last roundup or … see, I am reliving all of the must dos, like evil shadows on what could be a nice, purposeless day.
I certainly don’t want to contemplate all of the changes that have been wrought by the novel coronavirus and I don’t want to talk about who should have done what. It hurts my head to think about those that refuse to listen to the experts so, with the help of some acetaminophen, plus some ibuprofen because this last is also frightening, I will retreat from reality and read, a large glass of Arnold Palmer at my side. And, if I can pull this off, later in the day, because it is almost 90 degrees, maybe I’ll have a long, tall gin and tonic. Doesn’t that sound good?
When dinner comes … there is always ice cream with chocolate sauce.
