And Then a Miracle Occurred

It’s been one of those weeks. You know, the ones where you sleep until noon, stay in your jammies, and don’t shower.

I am a smelly person.

One pitfall of housefrauing is that no one validates my existence. There’s no paycheck that proves I count in the world, no cubicle that people expect me to occupy as if it matters in the least. Everything I do with my time, I do because I want to, because it matters to me.

And that, my friends, is terrifying.

Maybe I’m starting to understand why those horrifying people agree to have their pathetic lives exposed to the world on shows like “Nanny 911” and “Wifeswap.” It’s all pretty silly, what we do with our days, slogging along to our bellies’ urges, draping decorations over the walls in which we enclose our very very small selves. It’s a big world full of tigers, and we are slow and tasty monkeys. Even those whose deeds sweep the world must at some point fold their underpants into a drawer, rinse their lunchplate, write “floss” on a grocery list.

They say that the more scientists look at the minute particles of the world, the more vast those microcosms become. Each atom is bursting with particles; each of those little fellows is swarming with more bits of life. It’s not that life is boring—it’s too fucking full. Every gesture is a mosaic of minute postures, and to scrub the sink becomes a tapestry too rich to contemplate. We build life thread by thread.

I suppose that what it all comes down to is this: I didn’t do laundry this week; instead, I bought new clothes. It’s been that kind of week.

And yet, somehow, something wonderful occurred; a feat of housefrauing beyond my wildest dreams:



Sprouts! In my pot of dirt! By the simple act of doing absolutely nothing, I have green growing things.

I’m thinking that next week I’ll just stay in bed every day and see if a solution to world hunger doesn’t turn up in my living room.