I’ve been sharing a bed with a boy for quite some time now. But the boy – my boy Stephen – is currently out of town, and it dawned on me soon after he left that the bed – the whole bed – was mine for the time being.
An unencumbered bed.
A bed undivided against itself.
For those of you lucky enough to be single (HA, HA! I’m kidding. It’s not great. Rationalize all you want as stream The Daily Show and devour your store bought perogies straight from the pot)
(then again, being in a couple left me tingling with excitement and bad intentions over having my own bed to myself and feeling like I was actually getting away with something just because there was no one around to reinforce my good behaviour)
(we all make our own Hells)
…or fortunate enough to have a bed to yourself, you are probably baffled by why I so manifestly lost my mind over something as seemingly trivial one night’s altered sleeping arrangements.
I have been to the Great Wall. I have walked the Himalayas. I have seen the sun rise over the Ganges. Yet, it is this glorious THIS that has brought mine eyes to tears.
How to explain?
It’s a lot like being a lion at the zoo that discovers that one of the Plexiglas walls is down. There’s suddenly more SPACE available to occupy, explore. Kitty can thus claim more territory for herself. Kitty can roam, claw and roar to her kitty heart’s content. Kitty can eat the children.
Kitty is, however briefly and superficially, F–R–E–E.
For one night, for one beautiful night, the Possibilities were ENDLESS.
The Reality, therefore, was inevitable and (of course) crushing (OF COURSE).
A reality in which I fell asleep on the couch in front of a t.v. warming in the sweet fires of the melting pot mosaic that is the OMNI channel.
(OMNI: programming so diverse, it’s miscellaneous!)
With Stephen gone, I also overindulged in sleep – waking up only briefly enough to appreciate going to sleep again – and then waking up after that to horrible visage of Lucy Zilio.
Who would buy patio furniture because of this woman? Her endorsement makes me not want to play the lotto for the Heart and Stroke Foundation. Her status quo smile and empty, vacant, dead DEAD eyes make me want to run away from all spa treatments, yoga classes and Caribbean vacations forever.
Lucy Zilio, you are the price I must pay for my Simpsons fix.
Lucy Zilio you are, like, the Mary Hart of Canada and everybody else in Canada is that other lady from the New England Journal of Medicine.
Lucy Zilio, you are the straw that broke the camel’s back which is to say Kitty’s back which is to say the straw actually has a lot to do with the Plexiglas and the kitty is ME.
THE GLASS MOVED WHEN I WASN’T LOOKING AND ALL I COULD DO IN THE END WAS STARE AT YOU FROM BEHIND IT!
Next time, then.
Next time, Unencumbered Bed, my bed without encumbers, my lovely, you will be mine.
Oh yes. You will be mine.