I come from a long line of lazy people. So I’m not big on doing things. And people look down on me for that. Mainly because they’re standing and I’m sitting. Why do people feel the need to run around all the time? They’re too active. It’s all “We gotta do this now!” or “We gotta go see that!”
Hey, here’s an idea — how about you let me sit here in peace? That’s all I want out of life: To sit.
But people don’t like sitters. We’re useless. We do nothing. But I am doing something, I’m thinking. While you’re all running around like mad, I chill inside my head. I love it in there, all cozy and comfy, everything set up just the way I like it.
Plus thinking is hard. Thinking is exhausting. And I can’t be expected to think and be active at the same time, it’s not possible. Try it. Sprint across a field as fast as you can — there won’t be a single thought in your head. Possibly a fleeting feeling your heart might explode, but no real thoughts worth having trust me.
So when you collapse from dehydration and exhaustion at the end of the 10K race, I’ll make sure to be there waiting at the finish line so I can take a nice long sip from my 150 ounce cherry Slurpee, shake my head and think, Damn. You really should’ve picked sitting.
Isn’t it freaky when you sit down to type something on the computer, but you don’t realize all of your fingers are slightly to the right one letter? So what you type is complete gobbledygook.
You want to type “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog” but out comes, “yjr wiovl ntpem gpc ki,[rf pbrt yjr ;sxu fphz”
There’s this brief moment you think either you’ve invented a new language or you’ve lost your mind. Then you realize “D’oh! My fingers aren’t in the right spot!”
And when you move your fingers over to the correct spot and type real words a feeling of relief washes over you. “Oh thank god! Words I recognize!”
But that unsettling feeling doesn’t go away does it? Basically, we’re all one finger position away from nothing in the world making sense anymore.
Speaking of utter nonsense, ever notice how people who love tofu are always pushing it on the non-tofu eaters? My brother is a tofu fanatic. He insists it tastes good.
He’s always telling me, “C’mon, ya gotta try it! You mix it with stuff and cook it and it tastes like the stuff you mixed it with! So if you cook it with sesame oil it’ll taste like that! Or if you fry it up with ginger it’ll taste like ginger!”
Hey, here’s a crazy idea that will give me the same result — skipping the part where I put tofu in my dish.
Why would I add something that tastes the same as the ingredients I’ve already added? Isn’t that an extra step I could live without? Why not be satisfied with the ginger flavor that’s already there and not introduce what is basically the same taste but in the form of a disgusting slimy rubber cube?
“Hey, you know what would make this veggie stir fry taste even better? Some useless snot cubes! Yeah!”
And I know, I know….tofu is a good alternative protein substitute. Please. That’s what bacon is for.
Don’t you hate it when you’re having an intense conversation with someone on their cell, when suddenly the call drops? It’s usually when I’m in the middle of a rather serious rant about the benefits of sitting too.
I’ll be rambling away and there’s this abrupt dead silence on the other end. This is when I look really stupid. More than I normally do. (Hard to believe, I know.) Because I keep talking on and on to no one. After 30 minutes go by and there’s not a single response like “Uh huh” “Really?” “Get out!” or “I completely 100% agree with everything you say!” I start to think something’s wrong.
Then I get angry because I’m convinced my husband really is there, he’s just holding his breath hoping I’ll finally shut up. So I yell “HELLO? ARE YOU THERE? HELLO?” and hear nothing but dead air.
This is when I switch into full-blown panic mode. Maybe he really wants to listen to me babble but he’s been abducted by aliens. So I hang up the phone and sit there waiting for him to call me back to tell me he’s alive and not undergoing a series of anal-probes.
Finally after several minutes he calls me back.
“Hey honey…” he mumbles with all the enthusiasm of someone pre-anal-probe.
“Oh my god! You’re alive! What happened to you! Did you drive off the road? Did you get abducted by aliens?”
“Um….no…”he sighs, then mutters under his breath, “…unfortunately…”
“Whew! Good! So anyway, back to my belief more sitting will save the entire human race…”
“Why aliens?” I cry. “WHYYYYYY???”
Speaking of the involuntary invasion of one’s nether regions, my husband loves the riveting crab-catching show Deadliest Catch. And it’s on all the TVs in our house any given time of the day. This reality show transcends space and time, with its main purpose to drive me batshit insane.
I’ll walk into the living room and hear, “…twenty miles southeast of Dutch Harbor…” I’ll walk into the bedroom, “…twenty miles southeast of Dutch Harbor…” I’ll walk into the bathroom, “…twenty miles southeast of Dutch Harbor…”
We don’t have a TV in the bathroom.
My husband watches marathons of this show, in spite of the fact the guy narrating only manages to say one thing over and over, “…twenty-five miles southeast of Dutch Harbor…” You’d think they’d know by now where the hell in the ocean they are.
And I’m amazed my husband can handle the unrelenting suspense of this show. Will they catch crabs today? Or [gasp!] NOT catch crabs today?
Once I walked into the living room and was stunned at what I heard. “Holy hell!” I yelled at my husband lying comatose on the couch. “Did he just say they were twenty miles northeast of Dutch Harbor?! I cannot believe I am hearing this! I thought they were twenty miles SOUTHeast! Where’s the whiskey? Damn, I need to sit down and process this!”
Because sitting is good.