Today, I am going to try to work from home. I feel duplicitous in a conspiracy with the rest of the world. It is as if, in the simple act of answering my work emails, I am signing an agreement to keep on living. The thought makes my skin crawl and my stomach churn.
There are two reasons for working: (1) Other people are waiting on things they need from me. (2) It will likely result in eight hours of continuous sobriety.
Last night, after the better part of a bottle of California red, I put about thirty cosplay aprons in my Etsy account’s “save for later” list. Prior to last night, I didn’t know cosplay aprons existed nor did I ever consider the possibility of ever having any interest in cosplay.
Cooking was something I did for my daughter. I’d prepare real meals for each of her lunches on the weekend, freeze them in Pyrex, and then pack them each morning before I took her to the pool. I have never had any interest in cooking for myself. I can’t even bring myself to buy myself groceries. Yesterday, I ate a box of chocolates a neighbor gave me. Today, my menu consists of gifted zucchini bread.
Constance and I were given matching aprons last year. I’ve thrown those away. I couldn’t bring myself to give them to Goodwill. I am too angry to envision another family using them.
Somewhere in my drunken haze, I must have pictured a future me in an apron that makes me look like R2-D2 lying on my sofa, reading, eating, and feeling like the loneliest robot in the world.