I have seven more days glued to the couch, toes aimed toward the ceiling, before the first post-surgical evaluation of how my little fibula is doing. Seven days to make good with life on my back. Time in a Bottle may have been a hauntingly prescient song, but Time on a Couch pretty much sucks. Here are a few things I can do to pass the day:
Thursday – Watch re-runs of Sex in the City until my eyes bleed.
Friday – Learn a new language. I’m thinking Pig-Latin might be fitting for today’s distraction. I’ll start with the common phrase, ipstick-lay on a ig-pay, and then feign my own sexist outrage over it.
Saturday – Memorize the Periodical Table, then break out that Little Genius Chemistry Set to invent the Auburn McCanta line of designer stink bombs.
Sunday – Knit a sweater … provided I learn to knit without poking myself with those sharp pointy needles.
Monday – Worry over that teensy-weensy little black hole they are expecting to make inside the Super Collider in Geneva — you know, that black hole some worry might swallow up the earth, along with this ridiculous couch on which I’m captured. Whee-doggies!
Tuesday – Read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica, concentrating on the red-necked spitting cobra with which I will SO relate about this time.
Wednesday – Do a one-legged happy dance because the galaxy still whirls and we’re one day closer to something other than life on a couch.
I’d be happy to take further suggestions for time-consuming activities. There are still those wide-awake nights in which to occupy and amuse myself. I promise to take it all under advisement. Anyone? Anything?