An Undressed Day

This Saturday, I did something that I had never done in my entire life (unless I was sick). I stayed in my nighty the entire day, i.e., from the time that my feet hit the floor in the a.m. until they hit the sheets in the p.m. I dull malaise seemed to engulf me that morning. It felt so good to just sit and read the paper. I tried to tell myself that I would feel better if I took a shower and dressed for the day. That didn’t work. I just moved from the breakfast table to the recliner about 7 feet away. From there I could watch the clouds. So, that is what it did. A little voice tried to whisper that my Mother would have had two loads of wash done by now. A yawn drowned out the little voice. On my way to brush my teeth, I stopped off to watch a sit-com on my computer. That lead to watching, then dozing through a soap opera.

After a few deep breaths, I opened the closet door in my office and dragged out bags of old documents that ought to be shredded. That was not going to happen as that required more effort than my body was willing to sacrifice. Instead, I cut my name from any obsolete legal document, packed the papers in a box and labeled it “Paper Trash”, promising myself that by Monday that box would be in the incinerator of the apartment complex.

For lunch, I nuked a few left overs from the frig, then settled into a comfy rocker, put my legs up on my palates ball and read a novel. I must have dozed again because when I woke up, it was suppertime. On my way to the kitchen, I noticed that the wind had picked up. The air felt good and the dull head that I had since morning began to dissipate. Moving a few things around in the frig, I found some tuna that I forgot was in there. It made a great instant sandwich. My bare feet, nighty and I just settled ourselves in front of the TV in my office when a big gust of wind blew the bedroom door closed. “Oh well,” I thought, I’ll just watch a movie, then go into the bedroom.

Yep, you guessed it. The bedroom door would not open. There I was in my scanties unable to get into the bedroom suite, which housed the clothes closet, the bathroom and my toolbox. What to do? Oh, yes. Call maintenance. I’d never called maintenance after hours. Nor, had I ever met anyone I didn’t know in my nighty. Dawn finally broke into my conscious self. I found the maintenance number, called it, retrieved a long raincoat from the hall closet and waited for deliverance.

Maintenance people apparently have seen it all. The man apologized for not coming sooner, as he was on another call. With a flick of his wrist, the bedroom door swung open. Two seconds later, he said goodnight and hurried down the hall. There I stood, vowing to myself that this would never happen again. One day in one’s lifetime was enough to not get dressed.

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