Layabout

I don't want to get up.

Snow has fallen. It's windy out. There is a sidewalk at the edge of our property – the edge nearest civilization – that needs clearing. (I don't say shoveling because the snowfall wasn't of any significance. It probably wouldn't have produced a snow day if school wasn't out for winter break.)

But I digress.

I hear cars outside now. There is a slushy sound of warming temperatures and rain as they pass. Sidewalk clear thyself.

My head hurts. Or I think my head hurts. Receding barometric pressure has filled the space in my sinuses with doubt.

If I get up, I know that first step will feel like an icicle stabbing me through the soles of my feet. I also know by the time I make the long and arduous trek to the bathroom -- a miserable seven or eight steps – the sensation will stop, and I'll feel a little more human.

I won't even remember my head had felt overfilled.

Oh, but it's warm under these blankets.

It's comfortable, too. Not too lush. Not too austere.

I'm glad I held my own in the great mattress debate of '07. My choice was impeccable. Just the right balance between soft and supportive, yet not enough of either to make a person dread the advent of morning. The pillow-topped one my husband wanted would have been too comfortable, which is why he saw the light of my brilliance at the sales desk. He doesn't usually sleep in.

The dog and one of the cats have called a truce in their ongoing skirmish and curl up with me. I know they are looking for warmth, not companionship.

The wind sails across the roof and beats at the windows for a bit before it retreats. The first time was startling, but then every so often it comes back, like an angry child. Insistent and loud, but unable to sustain that intensity for too long. I relax a little and try to welcome the sound as it mingles with the cartoon blaring from the television downstairs.

He doesn't need me yet. His sister is visiting friends, which means he has total and complete control over the television and remote. In addition to the anime army fighting forces of evil, I also hear the tinney screech of the step stool as he drags it from one part of the kitchen to the other. A cabinet opens. He's got a glass. A tap opens. He's filling the glass with water. A drawer rolls out. He's got a bowl. Another cabinet opens and soon the clink of tiny rocks. He's filling his bowl will cold cereal.

I won't hear the seal of the refrigerator being penetrated. Milk will only make his cereal soggy, and everything else in there is relatively healthy or needs a modicum of preparation.

I can sense my husband's jealousy from the shop, which is a thousand or so paces into the backyard. I don't feel too badly about this. My jobs allow me to work from bed on occasion. There is a book-sized computer warming my lap that is running a number of programs simultaneously. I can get things done in my pajamas. He could, too if he wore a few extra layers of them and didn't mind what civilized people say.

Of course, I can't stay here forever.

I can see smoke has stopped coming out of the chimney. The stove could use another log or two.

But more importantly, no one brought me coffee.

I suppose it's time to get up.