I Can’t Get Outta Bed

This morning, I woke up around 10. I got some water, hit up the water closet (as we say here in America) and said, “You know what? I’m feelin a little cuddly, I’m just gonna hop back into my bed and chill out.”

This was a bad call. I talked to Jame for a little bit and then…? FELL RIGHT BACK ASLEEP. I had some weird dreams about fighting with my family and all we had to eat for dinner was potato salad, macaroni salad and egg salad (in dream = bad, in real life = I would do that). And then woke up again just before noon. And now I’m still here. Still in this damn bed.

Am I sick? Am I that lazy? I didn’t know, but maybe I am? Is this okay? I feel kinda bad about it, but you know, maybe people all over the world do things like this all the time. And I just don’t give myself the luxury. It’s my day off, what the hell else should I be doing?

And what about the people who are permanently confined to beds—how awful is that! I mean, right now, there’s no place I’d rather be, but I feel like in 10 minutes I’m gonna throw myself out of these sheets and feel super gross. But if I was forced to stay here? “Pull the plug!” I’d say. This is, of course, considering I’m on life support. Plenty of people are stuck in beds who would still be alive if you left them in a pitch black room.

I’ve never read Malcolm Gladwell’s “Tipping Point” but I think it might illustrate a good point here. At some point (the tipping one) the goodness of being in bed turns to badness. And that badness, I would wager, could get way worse than the good of the goodness. Pick up the book for further elaboration; I highly recommend it.

++++++++++++++

About a month ago, on a random weekend night, Matt and I went to Charly’s—the local gay bar—and we met some random people. One of them happened to be a 46-year-old lesbian named Laura, and oh boy, did she just LOVE me. Now now, let’s reel in those imaginations, the extent of my interactions with Laura was platonic—she’s actually super cool. But when I say she loved me, well, I’ll give you some dialogue to illustrate my point:

“OH DAYUM girl those LEGS! MM!”
“God I just wanna cover your legs with butter…”
“DAYUM I wanna take a bite outta those ANKLES!”

Laura loved my ankles, she loved them so. This, I unabashedly accepted, because I love compliments. But the other day I remembered a crucial fact about those lower joints of mine: in fifth grade I broke my left ankle, and just over a year later in sixth grade, I broke the right one. The second break was a serious low point for my tiny adolescent brain—I recall bawling in the car outside of the 7-11 after they put the cast on. My dad ran in for milk or potato salad or something. And there was the overwhelming feeling that I would never see the light of day again. I would get fat and slow and ugly and dumb, all because I broke my ankle again.

Of course, these things would happen regardless of that fact, but still, this was a concern at the time. But how strange and lovely it is that those same ankles that caused me so much grief and sadness, that my dad constantly cautions me to be careful on even 10 years later, would be the impetus for a night full of a stranger’s affection. Laura had no clue, but she was drooling over two broken, fractured things.

Mostly, you would never think you’ll end up wanting something that’s broken, right? Who wants that broken bowl? Not me, I sure don’t. How will I eat my soup from that broken bowl? I won’t, that’s how. But in some way, most of the things we’ll come to love most are just broken ankles. No one’s that foresighted. Mended little lives, growing back together again, guarding themselves for years.

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