This is my bed, made.
This was my win yesterday morning, my one nod to order in my universe. They say it helps, at least making your bed. So this would be my attempt at well-being and it might fool you, unless, like me, you could see beyond the edges of the frame to the pile of laundry. Piles, actually. To the left is the spot where I "cleaned up" after the dog got sick two weeks ago. And then the one from when he puked again the next day. But I guess it's not really clean if the spots are still there.
Beyond the frame is a catalogue of my failures. There's the fact that every incandescent light bulb in the house is burned out and I thought we had replacements but we don't; so I sit in the dark. The printer is out of ink. The refrigerator is empty except for cheese and hot dogs and half and half. Stacks of unmanaged paperwork cover every horizontal surface. Regular adults do not live this way, Corinna.
Will is accusatorially folding clothes in the TV room, which we only enter these days to pick through the mound of clean laundry in hopes of finding something to send Ezra to school in. (Will may not actually be sending daggers of resentment my way. I might be doing that to myself, since watching him fold clothes alone feels worse than seeing a pile of clothes stagnate there.)
Oh and look, there's a letter from the endocrinologist. You've gone and allowed your adrenals get fatigued. How careless.
And the car smells like burning elk jerky from that encounter with the elk on the way to Thanksgiving because where the hell is a car wash in this place anyway?
I wonder if the elk's soul also got stuck to the Subaru's radiator in the encounter and if he's noticed that he's burning in the hell-fires of I-25 traffic or if he's pissed and bewildered that he's getting dragged into the Denver suburbs everyday in his afterlife. This was not how it was supposed to be.
And why are your shoulders around your ears, Corinna? Relax.
Ezra came out of his room saying "my throat hurts. I want to take my brain out so my throat won't hurt no more."
And I thought Kid, you might be onto something. I could take my brain out and put it on the bedside table next to the well-made bed. It could be one more piece of clutter I crop out of the frame.