When even the happy hermit gets cabin fever, she turns to distractions she avoided in the past.
I am a contrarian.
The dictionary defines contrarian as “a person who opposes or rejects popular opinion or current practice.” In other words, if the sheeple watch or do something, this lady will take the road less traveled.
Perhaps we can ease into the final and most recent example rather than plunging in headfirst.
In several novels I have read, the heroine is upset about something her boyfriend or ex-boyfriend has done or said. Aside from the obligatory buckets of tears, she sheds, and the ranting and cursing tirade spewing from her lovely gloss-slathered lips, she does something more. It was behavior I never related to or understood. Instead of drowning her sorrows in a bottle or two of wine, which admittedly some ladies do, she went to the freezer.
The distraught female grabbed a gallon of ice cream and a spoon. Then she settled down on the couch and ate the whole thing. How could anyone eat that much ice cream in one sitting? As this writer discovered during the nth week of COVID-19 Solitary Confinement, it can happen.
After she finished putting away the rest of the groceries, the lady grabbed the pint of Chocolate Mint ice cream and a spoon. Since consuming a gallon of ice cream seemed a bit too much, she bought the pint-size and felt quite smug and self-righteous about her restraint.
“I’m only going to take a few bites just to satisfy the craving.” Time seemed to fly by as spoon after spoon of ice cream disappeared into her mouth. When she came to her senses, the entire pint was gone. “Hello, treadmill,” she groaned, trudging toward the sleek new machine that recently replaced her 22-year-old Walmart clunker.
The next fall from I-will-never-do-that grace was after she looked at the Plain Jane mask she wore to the grocery store. In a fit of creative frenzy, she jazzed up the face covering and took the very first selfie of her life. Due to technical difficulties, as chronicled in last week’s column, that first and only selfie was a bomb.
For quite a while, probably due to the country’s solitary confinement rule, people on the radio, during telephone conversations, and, of course, on social media talked about “The Tiger King” series on Netflix.
Both my children asked whether I watched the “hysterically funny” series. I proudly told them no, I did not. The previews looked like the people involved were on the trailer-compost pile side, and I was not going to waste my time watching what everybody else was watching. Nope. Never.
But then, even this lady who keeps busy, reading, writing, yard work, and a bit of selective binge-watching needed something different.
She is ashamed to admit, she finally bit down on a nasty leather strap and sat down to watch “The Tiger King.” It took two agonizing episodes to make her question her sanity. However, she did confess to the offspring of her dark deed.
“Mom, just watch the rest of the episodes, it gets better in a train-wreck kind of way,” her son recommended.
Of course, it did not take a Mensa member to figure out what the outcome of the series would be, but she heaved a martyred sigh and finished watching the rest of the episodes, including the follow-up interview with most of the cast members.
Upon reflection, she vaguely recalled articles in the newspaper from the time when the Tiger King crashed and burned. The stupid egotistical man was incapable of rational thought because of temper tantrums, hatred, and a desire for revenge.
What a collection of sad and lost people. Even the pain in the posterior Carol was a fraud. Instead of love for the large cats, all the owners had in common was twisted egos and greed. I wasted irretrievable time watching the series.
Now, all the contrarian has left is a determination never to read or watch “50 Shades of Gray.”
Of course, going against the grain is flexible in case I change my mind.