So it's true, then? E=MC2??
Hrrmm. I don't do marriage. Which explains why I always flunked physics. You know, all that Laws of Attraction type stuff. (And maths, but that's another story...). So yes, I'm strictly "beentheredonethat" on the matrimonial issue. Not that it was ALL bad, but still, more elevated ponderings now command my entire focussed attention. For instance: Do bugs turn blue after they bite? Did it rain tomorrow? Is it a grizzle or a gwick?
Which brings me to this whole thing about newly-single people and their beds. I have documented and observed other singles afflicted in the same way. Suddenly, you're one person in a two-people bed, and find you've developed an acute case of agoraphobia practically overnight.
However, you are relieved to note that your growing pile of reading-to-catch-up-on now threatens to take over the entire planet, after having annexed the vast empty frontier beside you that extends into the horizon. You notice you feel compelled to add to The Pile every day, in a spontaneous and unstructured manner. So the 3-month stack of unread newspapers is forced to share precarious bedspace with last month's unpaid bills, a 2002 organizer, a used tea-bag, 5 unfinished books, 2 cats and a giant octopus stuffed toy missing one eye, which predates marriage, puberty and braces.
This goes on for years, till your immediate vicinity (for a 10-mile radius) vies for inclusion in the Guinness Book as World's Largest Landfill. Meanwhile, as you continue to sift through the inevitable debris of a divorce, 'that' side of the bed becomes increasingly sacrosanct. Nobody dares set it to rights anymore, least of all yourself. After all, what would you DO with all that space? You'd much rather just scrunch up into foetal position at the very edge of your side...it's closer to the door.
Till suddenly one day, about 85,000 years later, something snaps. You take 3 deep breaths, and heave, and ho, and PUSH all that junk to the floor, for the sheer pleasure of seeing it hit the ground in slow-mo. It's like an alien takeover of your body, every cell prompting you to reclaim the vast reaches of this prime bit of real estate. You inhale deeply as clouds of dust mushroom and billow around you, and as you cough, you watch transfixed as an entire army of tiny, newly-evicted life-forms scuttle off to find themselves alternative homes, where they will hopefully dwell undisturbed till the turn of the next millenium.
Once the surface is finally clear, you revel in throwing yourself diagonally across the bed, stretching from corner to corner like an X. Ex? You Finally See The Light. This is YOUR space and nobody is ever going to take it over again. Or at any rate, not tonight.
Believe me, few things feel as decadently luxurious as having a king-sizer all to yourself. Or well, there are some...but right now I'm exulting in the simple pleasures of sprawling across it without bumping into someone else's elbows, knees, grunts and harrumphs. Tomorrow, I shall put up an electrified barbed wire fence around it. Need to figure out how to let myself in, though, without getting zapped to Outer Sedona. Oh, bleeagh. It's back to Quantum Physics, then...
Which brings me to this whole thing about newly-single people and their beds. I have documented and observed other singles afflicted in the same way. Suddenly, you're one person in a two-people bed, and find you've developed an acute case of agoraphobia practically overnight.
However, you are relieved to note that your growing pile of reading-to-catch-up-on now threatens to take over the entire planet, after having annexed the vast empty frontier beside you that extends into the horizon. You notice you feel compelled to add to The Pile every day, in a spontaneous and unstructured manner. So the 3-month stack of unread newspapers is forced to share precarious bedspace with last month's unpaid bills, a 2002 organizer, a used tea-bag, 5 unfinished books, 2 cats and a giant octopus stuffed toy missing one eye, which predates marriage, puberty and braces.
This goes on for years, till your immediate vicinity (for a 10-mile radius) vies for inclusion in the Guinness Book as World's Largest Landfill. Meanwhile, as you continue to sift through the inevitable debris of a divorce, 'that' side of the bed becomes increasingly sacrosanct. Nobody dares set it to rights anymore, least of all yourself. After all, what would you DO with all that space? You'd much rather just scrunch up into foetal position at the very edge of your side...it's closer to the door.
Till suddenly one day, about 85,000 years later, something snaps. You take 3 deep breaths, and heave, and ho, and PUSH all that junk to the floor, for the sheer pleasure of seeing it hit the ground in slow-mo. It's like an alien takeover of your body, every cell prompting you to reclaim the vast reaches of this prime bit of real estate. You inhale deeply as clouds of dust mushroom and billow around you, and as you cough, you watch transfixed as an entire army of tiny, newly-evicted life-forms scuttle off to find themselves alternative homes, where they will hopefully dwell undisturbed till the turn of the next millenium.
Once the surface is finally clear, you revel in throwing yourself diagonally across the bed, stretching from corner to corner like an X. Ex? You Finally See The Light. This is YOUR space and nobody is ever going to take it over again. Or at any rate, not tonight.
Believe me, few things feel as decadently luxurious as having a king-sizer all to yourself. Or well, there are some...but right now I'm exulting in the simple pleasures of sprawling across it without bumping into someone else's elbows, knees, grunts and harrumphs. Tomorrow, I shall put up an electrified barbed wire fence around it. Need to figure out how to let myself in, though, without getting zapped to Outer Sedona. Oh, bleeagh. It's back to Quantum Physics, then...
posted by Priya Tuli at
3:26 PM
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