to be human

Yoder husband has been traveling for work for the past two weeks.  Anticipating his departure, I knew I would either be ridiculously productive or embarrassingly slothful in his absence.  I work in extremes.  The productive me would clean the house – make the bed, clean the bathrooms, mop the floor… probably on my hands and knees… repaint the grout, work out every day, organize the basement, hang new shelving in the office, caulk that trim that’s been bothering me for the past 15 months, schedule doctor’s visits (right after I find a doctor), renew my passport, get an oil change, finish two books, and weed the garden, which would all result in a proud, accomplished and happy me.

My slothful persona would barely check the mail, and would binge on Netflix and wine for 14 days straight.

I did organize the basement.  Then, binged on Netflix and wine for 13 days straight.

I refused to be human.  I preferred to give into my deeply-seeded animalistic craving for fermented grapes and lying around.  I woke up with chocolate wrappers in my hair and popcorn kernels down my hoodie.   I grunted at my phone whenever it buzzed or beeped.  I covered myself in blankets and laid on the couch for hours at a time.  The cat loved it.

Living alone teaches you a thing about yourself, and this two week stint reminded me of the unfortunate fact that I am simply not human unless I have another human there to make being human worthwhile.  In some twisted, Jack-Nicholson-esque, way, that’s how I define my love for Yoder husband.  He keeps me just off the edge of spiraling down the slothful rabbit hole.  To love him is to remain human.

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