I have become a lazy bastard, addicted to the comforts of a couch and fireplace. The room containing these luxuries does not contain the computer. My new couch arrived in December, just in time for dark nights that begin at 4pm and the launch of a new local tv station that airs Seinfeld twice each week night. Two different episodes.
It started with the fireplace. It started with having one--I never before have had a working fireplace. The dog presses herself up to the screen, risking bodily flammage to be as physically close to the warmth as possible, and snoozes for hours, days on end. I have learned to watch how the dog lives her life and follow her lead--she doesn't have stress zits or sleepless nights or an unidentified rash or hormone rage.
First the cord of wood, then came the couch. A couch may seem a triffling thing, but I have been without a proper one for five years. I didn't know I was suffering. I had Mom's cozy lounge chair, the armless cubes and for some time now my beloved new retro-armchairs. I had forgotten about the couch's dirtly little secret---sitting down, I am faced with all that luxurious space next to me. A leg sneaks up, then the other. Shortly, I am prone.
And then I am asleep.
I don't have time to blog, I am drooling on my toss pillow.