Some Days I Forget How Old I Am
Someone recently asked my husband what it’s like to live with a writer. His reply: “Well, quite honestly, she’s a regular pain in the a**. But she makes me laugh, so that makes up for it.”
In all seriousness, it takes a certain personality type to live with a writer, someone with a lot of patience and understanding. Writers spend a great deal of their time in their heads or sitting in front of a computer, or jotting notes on a pad. This writer in particular needs lots of quiet time and time alone. But…and that’s a big butt…there are those moments when I’m not writing. And for the most part, I am a regular goofball. I’m so glad my husband has a sense of humor. He needs one to live with me. For example, there are days when I forget how old I am and I try to do something that I couldn’t even do when I was fifteen. I recall one such moment now. It went something like this….
One year my husband bought me a blue fuzzy robe. This robe is entirely made of nylon. Once donned, this garment can build up enough static electricity to power New York for a week. One has to be careful when wearing this robe because it turns the wearer into a walking, talking tazer weapon. Only worse.
One evening, I was feeling particularly impish. I had just gone into the kitchen to put away a cup, and on the way back to the bedroom, I decided to do my impersonation of wonder woman. Feeling silly, happy, and giggly, I started running down the hall. My original plan was to run down the hall, jump into bed, where my husband and dog lay, and yell “I LOVE YOU” to my husband. But…as always…my plans went awry. All because of those things that go bump in the night and my cowardice when it comes to all things bigfoot, ghosts, and ufos. Halfway down the hall, a heard a slight rustling noise coming from the kitchen. Terrified that the ghost was coming to get me, I sort of accidentally launched myself into the air and began clawing my way through the air, as if I could somehow swim through the air, toward the bed, yodeling in terror all the way. My bedroom was lit dimly with salt lamps that cast a slight glow. Still, in this dim light, I could very clearly see my husband’s face as he turned and saw me hurtling through the air. Now, I don’t know about anyone else, but my husband is pretty smart. When he saw a blue, fuzzy missile flying through the air, aimed straight for his chest, sparks of static electricity flying in all directions, he did the right thing. He ditched off the other side of the bed to avoid being hit, and/or electrocuted. Our dog Mooch lifted her head just in time to see a blue fuzzy comet trailing bright orange sparks from its tail and screaming somewhat like the familiar voice of mom. She ditched off the other side of the bed to avoid being hit and/or electrocuted.
Meanwhile, my initial, unintentional launch was rather short of the target. I landed on the bed, squarely on my chest, my chin driving down into the mattress, but not quite in the center of the bed…unfortunately for me. My legs whiplashed upwards, bending my back into a U shape. I heard an ominous pop coming from my spine, after which I swear the bottoms of my feet hit the back of my head. Then my legs fell back down and ended up draped over the side of the bed.
“Ugh!” I groaned.
I see my husband’s forehead appear over the side of the bed, in the direction that I happen to be staring. He peered at me in concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m not sure,” I muttered.
Mooch whined. My robe crackled with static electricity. Both husband and dog are fearful of touching me. I gingerly wiggled a toe. It’s not broken, so I wiggle another one.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” my husband asked, still peering at me from over the side of the bed. “I think I heard something crack when you hit the bed.”
“Ugh,” I groaned.
With great care, I peeled my chest off the bed and tried to prop myself on my elbows. “OWWWW!!!” I howled as my robe crackled and sparked and shocked the crap out of me.
“Are you gonna be okay?” Hubby-Poo asked for a third time.
“I don’t know. I think so.” I paused for a moment to look at my husband. He’s still kneeling down behind the bed. “You gotta admit, though, it was pretty funny,” I said.
He grinned. “Yeah, you put on a good light show.”
“Ummm…just one thing…how am I gonna get the robe off without frying myself?”
“Good question.”
“I can’t move. Too much static. It’s gonna be painful.”
Hubby-Poo laughed. I lunged for him, intending to give him a little shock, but he avoided me.
Needless to say, it took some strength, determination, and nerves of steel to peel myself out of that electrifying robe that night. And for weeks my back reminded me of my age. Unfortunately.
So, that’s pretty much what it’s like to live with a writer. This one, anyway.
Copyright 2008 C. D. Blizzard
C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile.
