Moose in the Kitchen

Cabin fever is marked by an irrepressible urge to sing “Oh, my darling! Oh, my darling! OH, MY DARLING CLEMENTINE!” at the top of your lungs, pausing to pick up one large, boat-like boot and brandishing it for emphasis during the rousing chorus of “And her shoes were number nine!” You can also recognize cabin fever by the disproportionate glee shown when a fortuitous box from Amazon is delivered. And the sniffs of dismay when all contents are devoured in less than 32 hours. The squalid den of a cabin fever sufferer is notable for its sixteen empty theraflu packets, nine trillion used tissues, three empty soup cans, and mournful pile of mugs lying unheeded in the kitchen sink, the stained paper of much abused teabags hanging desolately in the still air. The atmosphere, permeated by the acrid scent of melodrama. As sometimes happens when a person is BORED OUT OF THEIR THICK YET RATHER ATTRACTIVE SKULL.

I’ve had the flu, is what I’m saying. And as much as I’ve enjoyed the 97 hours of napping this week and the uninterrupted reading time, I’m still ready to leave my house now. Make plans and be confident that I’ll be able to keep them. Not feel tempted to sing another rendition of “Clementine” just because I sound like a lactose intolerant bullfrog and the comedy value in that is worth extra jabbing from the sore throat of doom.

Despite my over-abundant use of the caps lock, I’m not really bored. Just a little under-socialized and drastically under-exercised. It colors my view of the world. The color, were it to be found in a box of crayons, would be labeled: Dark, Tempestuous, and Kind of Whiny. But it’s nice not to be sleeping so much any more. I forgot how long and productive a day could be when you’re not spending 21 hours of it drooling onto a not-so-fresh pillow. I can rinse out the mournful mugs! I can work on a project that should have been finished Monday! I can shower! And by that I mean, I CAN shower. This is not to imply I DID shower. You don’t appreciate the energy you have until suddenly it’s gone, and the effort involved in making yourself a toaster waffle seems unendurable. But no more! I am on the mend! But still expelling molecules of contagion into the innocent air by my very existence, hence the continued housebound theatrics.

Next up, sock puppets!