I’ve been in my closet all day. No, I haven’t been trying to find the perfect outfit so’s I can pitch woo at my husband.
I have been avoiding life.
It’s nice in here. I might live here I think. I’ve already dragged everything I could possibly need inside here. A pillow, booze, flashlight, romance novel filthy enough to melt my face off, and my computer. I am typing this from my closet right now actually. People are living in tiny houses now, so me living in my closet isn’t so weird. It’s like tiny house inception. A tiny house within a regular house. All I need now is a composting toilet and I’m set.
It’s big enough in here for visitors. Other people with debilitating anxiety are welcome. We’ll sit and panic together like a couple of sweaty, paranoid nerds. Don’t worry, it’s dark in here. No one will see you binge eat Oreos, and cry over having to go outside today.
Things I did/didn’t do today (thank you anxiety):
I did not make any of the phone calls that I’ve had to make for the past week and a half because it involved talking to people I didn’t know. My luck, they would spread rumors about my gross personality, and it would somehow end up on Twitter and Tumblr as some kind of stalkerish gross lady meme. All because I just had to pick up the damn phone. No way, man. I know a trap when I imagine one.
I got out of the checkout line at the grocery store because I had too many things in my basket, and the lady behind me had fewer things than me. I was sure she was secretly wishing I would go die, or at the very least wondering why I was buying so much crap. I just went to a different checker who had no customers. Of course, I was sweaty and beet red by then, so the checker stared at me like I was insane. I just acted like I was super fit, and had been at the gym. I think it worked. I did run away once I had all of my groceries.
I had decided the money I gave my son this morning was somehow counterfeit, and all day long I waited for the phone call from him.
“Hey, mom I need you to come up to the school. I’m in the principal’s office, and he says you’re a criminal. Why, mom”?
In this morbid fantasy I’d get there, and it would be an ambush. Cops would pop out from everywhere, and karate kick me in the gut. I’d get tasered until I peed my pants, and I’d be on YouTube as the Counterfeit Mom. It would get 3 billion hits, my family would be shamed, and I’d got to prison in Siberia where they only have out of date Ladies Home Journal to read.
As you can see I have surrendered for the day, and crawled into the safety of my closet. I’m going to stay here until my husband gets home, and forces me out.
I’m sitting where his shoes go.