The light burned out in my closet while my hubby was away and for two weeks I kept walking into the closet and flipping the switch and experiencing disappointment over and over again.
I didn’t plan on being insane.
It just sort of crept up on me.
I couldn’t find my panties in the dark. I thought I had but it ended up being a kite that one of the grand kids had shoved in between the two dressers.
I tried taking a flashlight in and that promptly died and then, along with there being no extra light bulbs, there were no batteries. All of the people who had offered to drive me anywhere if I needed a kidney or a lung transplant, moved or blocked my calls. I could have taken a taxi but I had made a commitment to be absolutely alone, no human contact for 2 weeks. I believe everyone should prepare themselves for solitary confinement just in case, especially as you get older, you have less patience, and you start to fantasize in great detail about who you would want to kill and how you would go about it.
My hubby said I would never last in solitary confinement. He said I would crack in no time. He was very smug about it, that kind of smug that says he would ace it and I would be a whiny baby. Although I desperately wanted to get dressed, I was more motivated by not wanting to give my husband the satisfaction of being right.
Besides, I had mileage on his not having light bulbs or batteries in supply.
When you have been married awhile that kind of ammunition is gold.
I varied my daily routine between forgetting clothes and looking like a clown. The clown had to answer the door when the delivery man showed up. The naked person was caught last minute at the door before going out to put the garbage cans out and reminded that while clowns might get laughed at, naked people get arrested.
I tried a candle. Matches were mildewed. Besides, with my luck, my favourite dress would have caught fire and I would panic and forget the number here for emergency. I do that when I am stressed or in emergency situations, I pull on a moose knitted sweater and a toque and revert to complete Canadian and all my Australian training goes right out the window.
And for some reason I kept walking into the closet and flipping the switch. I knew it was broken. I knew I was naked or dressed like a clown, and yet I tried every time. And every time I had this momentary WTF space before feeling profoundly disappointed.
And the feelings grew.
And I found myself standing, head against the wall, flipping the switch on – off, on – off, on – off. And then I started singing this sort of guttural chant in gibberish and made up words and I was dancing around the room, and on the bed and making faces at myself in the mirror and jumping . . . And before I knew it 2 weeks had come and gone and I twirled around and came face to face with my husband, who had arrived home, suitcase in tow looking at me like I had completely lost the plot.
I hadn’t. The plot was in the closet . . . somewhere . . .
Without skipping a beat I pointed to the light bulb, pulled on my clown outfit, and started in on him about how I had almost died, risking my life every day to go in and out of that dark closet, not knowing if there was a murderer hiding in there, or a big spider. I could have died and all because he didn’t love me anymore because if he did he would have made sure I had enough light bulbs and not left me without batteries or matches either. And I started snobbing and blowing bubbles out my nose and saying I wasn’t pretty anymore and he never really loved me and how he probably didn’t even miss me or think of me once . . . .
He dropped his suitcase to the floor, opened it up and pulled out a pretty bracelet he had bought me.
And suddenly the world came back into focus and my mind calmed and all was forgiven.
“I told you I could ace the solitary thing.”
“Absolutely,” he nodded. “You do know you can’t be naked in jail, nor do they allow clowns. But other than that, you nailed it. I have never been more proud.”
You know, having time away from each other is like magic for relationships. This is the stuff romance novels are made of.
My bracelet sparkles.
– dive dark (PS enhanced)