Yesterday, Mr. Typist did his best to convince me to go for a walk. He had a checklist of hyper-logical, lawyer-ly arguments involving a rare window of good weather in Seattle and “health benefits”, and when those didn’t work, he pulled out the theoretical physics card, citing the time-space continuum and how in some parallel universe I am going take a walk, and may have in fact, already taken a walk, so I might as well just go since it’s all a done deal anyway.
I’m almost always up for a good, brisk walk. I love walking. But yesterday, I rebelled. I was exhausted. I logged over 20 miles on my Fitbit this week. I worked long hours. My pollen allergies have been killing me. And, ironically, I strained my back trying to assemble my ergonomic office chair at work. I was grumpy and a bit depressed, and I just wanted to curl up with a good book as though it were the dead of winter and we were in the midst of a howling snow storm. And yet, It Was Nice Outside. Therefore, according to some strict societal mandate, it was incumbent upon me to Go For A Walk, or, alternately, Get Out and Enjoy It!! I did not want to Go for A Walk or Get Out and Enjoy It!! I wanted to shut the world out while I fell asleep on the couch reading a post-apocalyptic novel, then I wanted to get up and play Tomb Raider with my headphones on and all of the lights off. I had no wish to leave the house. I was effing tired, people. Why should the fact that it’s mildly warm outside and an annoying yellow ball of light is present in the sky mean that I should be compelled to drop everything and go dance in the streets? Screw nice weather. I could care less. I’m not sure, but contrary to popular belief, I suspect most suicides take place in July rather than in December. It’s just too much pressure to be happy when it’s hot and sunny out, and the cognitive dissonance of being depressed in 90-degree, “good” weather is more than some of us humans can bear.
I was about to post a photo of my triumphantly completed fox pillow---I sewed it and stuffed it and closed it up by hand!—when Mr. Typist delivered the tragic news: Some time during the dead of night, (or maybe just when we weren’t looking), Buddy got his formidable claws into it and tore out a section of yarn:
I don’t have the heart to be mad at him. I mean, there it was, a tempting palette for his artistry, just lolling there on the recliner, begging to be manhandled (or cat-handled, in this case.) I can’t say I blame him. However, the fox pillow, once repaired, shall henceforth be kept out of Buddy range, and my new peacock rug-in-progress (which will be an actual rug rather than a pillow) will be secured within the confines of our hall closet…where it will hopefully remain unmolested until he figures out how to open the door. This is why we can’t have nice things. Anyway, here’s a preview of the peacock rug:
I did get a little Tomb Raidering in yesterday during my short-lived adulting strike. “Rise of the Tomb Raider” continues to be fun and intriguing, I just wish it were a little less twitchy. I go along quietly for hours, lulled by the meditative jump sequences and puzzle-solving and readings of ancient texts, then suddenly all hell breaks loose and I’m being attacked by a gang of thugs in riot gear, forcing me to instantly switch from calm, thinky, exploration mode to heart-popping, holy-shit-I’m-going-to-die mode. And die I do. If I can figure out how to beat the current level I’m on, I’ll write a proper review one of these days. I’ve been reviewing this game piecemeal because that’s the only way I can play it—in little bursts and starts. I’m sorry. I’m a sucky gamer and an even suckier game reviewer. But I do have enthusiasm! Hopefully that counts for something. Here’s a little clip of what I’m up against in this next sequence. The chick who put up this video up makes it look easy. Believe me, it’s not: