“If I ever become one of those little old ladies walking around with a fried egg on her head, don’t tell me.”

How many years has it been since Bette Midler made that joke? Thirty-five? But I’ve never forgotten it.

And now, I suspect there’s something over easy sitting just above my brow.

Nobody has to tell me about it. I’m still sane enough to recognize that I’m crossing the border into crazy.

I don’t think I’ve left the house since Memorial Day. Left to my own devices, I could easily sleep eighteen hours a day… and if I don’t, I feel the effort is gargantuan. I don’t pick up the phone to call my daughter or my friends, although I’m very happy to read about their activities on Facebook. I can’t bring myself to drive the car, or do some very necessary chores. I put off important tasks, like finalizing our health insurance situation, or applying to a couple of employers every week (one of the prerequisites for collecting unemployment insurance).

I had pledged to start writing a book, and what I have is a number of two-page compilations…none of which I really care to expand.

I move around the house so infrequently that my muscles are becoming worthless… standing for more than five minutes is now agonizing, and I’m too stiff to walk more than a room or two at a time.

I spend hours in front of a TV set, overrun by cats, listening to traffic and yakking into this blog.

And I’ve never been happier.

THAT’s the issue! I realize I am not behaving as I should, but for once, FOR ONCE! I am behaving as I like.

I don’t want to go out. I’ve never liked going out, and now, I don’t have to. Everything I need in this world comes to visit me in my own little corner. My husband spends every evening at my side. I’m in touch with my children and my friends. I am serenaded by the greatest artists who’ve ever lived (right now, I’m listening to The Abduction from the Seraglio). I have access to every book that was ever written, and a lot of the greatest movies ever filmed.

My hands and legs are constantly rubbed by pussycats who claim me as their property.

I am warm, I am clothed, and I am well fed (although I must admit I miss my morning visits to Dunkin Donuts).

Why should I listen when it is suggested that I pull myself together and get back out into the world? The world had me for a very long time, and it didn’t exactly coddle me. Now, I am cocooned in comfort, and satisfied to call it a day.

I think that little fried egg looks kind of saucy, and I don’t see the reason to take it off my head.


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