Think of this as a warning, a true cautionary tale. It may
not be pretty. It may not be pleasant. Real life seldom is. And once having
consumed the forthcoming account, consider sharing with your children, lest they
someday fall into such an unfortunate state. For, not unlike the plotline of a
1950’s, atomic age, drive-in, sci-fi flick, this is the story of a once
gainfully employed, fully functioning, active member of society, turned slug.
I have become astonishingly, remarkably, and perhaps even, Guinness
World Record noteworthy lazy since my surprise early retirement was suddenly
thrust upon me. I rarely rise before the
crack of noon, if that early, and even with that deferred rousing, usually pencil some time into my barely there
schedule to allow for an utterly unnecessary nap, somewhere in the period
between afternoon syndicated courtroom shows and whatever frozen restaurant
leftovers I microwave and munch standing up over my butcher block table as an
evening meal (a hint from a very seasoned and accomplished napper - no matter
how awake and alert you may feel when first reclining, a screening of any
episode of the PBS chestnut, “The Joy of Painting with Bob Ross” will gently
lull you into a soothing and satisfying slumber, complete with dreamy visions
of happy, little trees and friendly, fluffy clouds. I have watched hundreds of episodes and have
yet to witness a painting rendered to completion. You may consider that good,
you may consider that bad - art is subjective.)
Tasks, outings, errands, social events, theatre, shopping,
drinking, dining – any activity that involves the extreme exertion of actually
departing the apartment, be it for pleasure or chore, is generally limited
to one a day. In the infrequent
situation when faulty and most tragic miss-scheduling arises, and two or
(perish the thought), more events are on the docket, the subsequent 24 hours are to be largely spent in bed, followed by an immediate vacation. For example, once
concluding an expedition to Gristedes Supermarket, a mere quarter of a block
from my building’s entrance, for that taxing and trying task of food, grocery
and sundry replenishment, I’ve put in my eight hours. And, once more, it’s into
the familiar and welcoming embrace of a well-worn sofa, the anxious and willing
servitude of Google Home awaiting my verbal commands and demands, and the
companionship of a cat who, at best, just wants to be friends.
Friends, beware the siren call of the electronic home
assistant. I have fully succumbed to its
allure and seductive charisma, so much so, that I own one each of the
bitter rivals. In the livingroom, a Google Home, and in the bedroom, an Amazon
Echo - combatants in a contentious commercial conflict, cautiously coexisting
in these claustrophobic accommodations. There is a peace between the two, a ceasefire
of sorts, but it is fragile and antagonistic, so, it’s imperative they be kept
continually separated, rooms apart - for their well-being, my safety and the
continued existence of all humanity. But thanks to the futuristic,
Jetsons-esque capabilities of these underpriced, over-achievers; movement within
the confines of my home is virtually unnecessary. These celebrations of sloth
and enablers of immobility have made the simple motion of typing on a keyboard seem
a grueling and superflous Herculean challenge.
However, in complete fairness to myself, I would not say I am, yet, an
inert object, but I also would not proclaim myself particularly “ert” either.
While this lethargy, and its corporeal consequences, have reached such epic proportions that I’ve been offered my own TLC program, despair
not from this unseemly saga of a good man gone bland, and a drive temporarily
stuck in neutral, because this physical inactivity has not been equally
mirrored in the mental realm. In actuality, the opposite has occurred, the rested
body has led to an active mind, and many a condition and position have been
pondered, even beyond fresh phrases with which to insult Donald Trump on Twitter. With maturity, comes a heightened ability to
recognize and confront weaknesses and flaws, and whereas in youth I would have
denied, I will now forthrightly and willingly admit to being a bountiful cornucopia of faults. It’s unlikely I’ll do much to correct them, but I’ll be more
than happy to fess up when called out. And, in today’s society, that gets you
a trophy.
“Up a lazy river by the old mill run
Lazy river in the noon day sun
Linger awhile in a shade of a tree
Throw away your troubles, dream with me."
Lazy river in the noon day sun
Linger awhile in a shade of a tree
Throw away your troubles, dream with me."
Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions,
cash contributions? Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com.
Hey keep posting such good and meaningful articles.
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