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| Keep Walkin', there's nothing funny going on here. Only a crazy Angel forward that will make you cry. |
I'm not kidding. Shhhhh!
Just read this post as though it's another Angel forward from your well-meaning mother-in-law (or mother, whichever one sends you your forwards about angels). Don't tell a SOUL that you're really reading my blog. I'll try to keep this one serious so you don't accidently snort or giggle. I'll even put a little angel over here in case someone walks by and wonders what you're doing.
I'm writing this from inside the Christmas tree box, in the darkest, dankest regions of my basement. I'm half crippled having wrapped my legs around my head. Very Best Girlfriend is a yoga instructor and I'm sure even she would be impressed with my bendy-ness. Why?
Because, as much as I love them, I need a break from my family REALLY BAD. I love them to the moon, to the stars and to the "Maximus" (which is what my Tangled-loving daughter holds as the pinnacle of adoration) but if they even suspected I am in the house, it would be game over. I'm typing this on my iPhone. It will surely cause massive carpal tunnel in both wrists, but the click of my keyboard sounds like hammers to my kids and dog. They can hear that at 50 paces, and from a dead sleep.
I told my family that I was going out for groceries after dinner-- Husband agreed to put the kids to bed all by himself, because there's nothing he hates more than grocery shopping. I waited until I had the quiet cover of darkness. I waved to my kids and husband and drove away. Then, like all those cool spy movies, just as my taillights were out of distance, I cut the engine and parked the car.
With the silence and stealth of a 16-year old boy in his girlfriend's parents' driveway at 2am, I tucked and rolled out of my driver's seat, silently shut the door and locked it with the key fob. I looked around, smug with the success of my plan thus far-- I've parked the car 5 houses down from ours and I am wearing my usual all-black attire, which works double time in the darkness. Oh I am SO smart. Smarty-smart-smart.
"Hi Elizabeth."
"Oh hi, Fire Chief Neighbour. I, uh, suppose you're wondering why I'm crouched down here beside my car."
"Oh, not really."
"Well, I uh, um, I just ... am stretching for a run?"
"You don't need to come up with something crazy on my account."
"But this looks weird. I mean, I'm whisper-shouting even. That has to be odd to you."
"Oh, Elizabeth. You do plenty of really weird stuff. This isn't new. Carry on."
Sigh. I wave as my neighbour power walks by. I mean, what else could I do?
Once the coast is clear-er, I duck walk back to the house making sure to avoid all window areas. I listen at the side door for the screech, laughter or general noise of the children, decide they're not on this side of the house and unlock the door. The dog barks four times before she sees it's me and stops. I hear Husband yell, "Rizzo!" from the kids' bathroom. Ah yes! He's giving them a bath. I won't be caught now, for sure!
I slink, less cautiously but still stealthily, down the stairs to the basement. It's dark down here with the lights off. I crunch across the playroom floor. Why was it a good idea to put uncooked rice in the water table while it's inside for the winter? The snap, crackle and pop beneath my feet sounds like tap dancing on sand.
Yet, my heart pitter patters like tap dancing on sand. Ok, that doesn't work as well, but you get the point. I'm ALONE! No one knows I'm here and I'm ALONE! No one is slobbering, sneezing or otherwise showering me with bodily fluids. No one is paralyzed with indecision or unable to think or do without asking me about it first. It is so liberating I almost bust out into song--BUT that would give away my secret hideaway so I swallow my urge to sing, swallow hard, and walk deeper into the recesses of my basement.
I find the Christmas tree box. I climb in.
I turn on my phone and get caught up with email and Facebook (wretched, wonderful thing that it is). The glow is blinding, even with the screen dimmed. I fill up countless shopping carts with the things I'd buy on a whim-- oh the websites and places I go. Yet, I feel strangely sad.
I can't believe this. Here I've been plotting and planning for days to carve out some time for JUST. FOR. ME. To make my own choices, to just do what I want to do, when I want to do it. And here I am,
What to do? What to do?
Well, for starters, I need to remember that I make the atmosphere in my house. If I am crabby, everyone else will be, too. Sure, that sounds like an overwhelming responsibility some days, but man, it's super empowering. I mean I CONTROL it. So if I want everyone to love life, I need to show them what that looks like. I need to be happy and positive and creative and I can't be that way if I haven't taken time to recharge my batteries. I fire off an email to my girlfriends: the first two to respond say they'd love to meet me at the park for a quick walk before going for dinner tomorrow night. Sweet. Just what the Doctor ordered.
But. I'm still feeling a little crabby. I find this time of year is a killer for me. I get to be extra busy making sure everyone's holiday is wonderful by way of baking, running, tradition-making, sewing, ... the list goes on.
Yes, we love it, but it's still extra tiring and extra work on top of the regular super-mom things we do.
So I've decided to mark, on the calendar, in ink, a night each week from November to December, where I have the night off. I can spend it with friends, getting exercise, reading, or whatever, but I cannot use that time to stare at Facebook, the TV or my phone. I will not squander the spare time I actually have.
I climb gracefully out of the box. Ha. That's a riot. I tip the box over onto its side and roll my paralyzed corpse out. Everything cracks, creaks and groans as I attempt to sit up. My hands are screaming from pain and are freezing to the touch making the sandy, not-quite-painful, not-quite-pleasant feeling of sleeping limbs go from head to toe. GROSS.
I wish I'd thought through how I was going to re-leave the house and return unnoticed, since Husband is now in the basement watching TV (he's watching a scary TV show about the army or zombies, so my hideous groaning and bone popping sounds blended in). I slither up the stairs like the shadow of a serpent, smugly sure of my success. I lock the side door behind me and steal off into the night to return as though I've been shopping for hours. As I come in the garage door, I announce that Husband doesn't need to help with the groceries [that I didn't get].
He doesn't answer.
The TV is noiseless so I shout down again. "No need to help with the groceries."
Nothing.
I head to the basement and find he's not on the couch. I call out, "Husband?""Yeah?"
"Where are you?"
"In the Christmas Tree box."
"Wha ... why? What?" I cringe. Frickin' frick.
"The Christmas Tree box."
I walk over. There he is, exactly where I'd just been. My stomach freezes and, like a drug addict from some TV show that I can't watch without getting nightmares, I start panicking, twitching and sweating.
"Um?" That's all my panicked brain seems capable of saying. Nice. Thanks brain. I'll remember that next time I decide to go drinking, jerk.
Husband pops open the flaps and smiles. "Oh, hey. Just thought I'd try it out. It's not as comfy as you make it seem." He chuckles and offers me his hand to help him get up. I chuckle and realize maybe, just maybe, he's on my side.
"You know, if you need some time alone, you don't have to pretend to leave and then sneak back and hide in the basement. You could just say, "Hey, Husband, I need a break. Can you handle things and I'll be back in a couple of hours.""
He looks me in the eyes and smiles and the weather in the basement gets a whole lot warmer in an instant.
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