Just when I think I have run out of material for this blog, Charlie gives me inspiration.
I ran away today. I suppose it was long overdue. Four feet of snow and below zero temperatures have kept us cooped up all winter, except for an occasional trip to the doctor, dentist or grocery store.
Yesterday, we talked all day about going out to Sunday brunch or dinner. Charlie promised to get up early, take a shower and shave. The last thing he said last night was, "Be sure and get me up by 9:00 a.m."
Okay – fine. I waited until 9:30, giving him a little leeway. When I called him, the response I got was, "I don't want to go." So, I shut the door and left him to his misery. It wasn't that he didn't feel well enough; he just didn't see any reason to get up, even though I reminded him of our plans.
The doctor put Charlie on an antidepressant the last time he was there, thinking that the medication might help motivate him to spend less time in bed. It hasn't helped.
It was 12:30 p.m. before he emerged, ready for "breakfast." By then, I was fuming. I fed him bacon, eggs, toast and coffee, put on my face, and told him I was going out.
He wanted to know where I was going and I told him I didn't know. I didn't. I just knew I had to escape before I blew my top.
So I ran away.
I ran to JC Penney and did some damage to the credit card. Then, I ran to Panera Bread and did some damage to my waistline—a cappuccino and a cherry blintz will do that. Then I ran to a couple other places—I needed some Easter treats for the little girls.
When I ran out of places to escape to, I ran home.
I toyed with the idea of sitting in the library for a couple of hours, but then I had visions of Charlie falling, leaving the stove on, or locking him self in the garage (he did that a couple of times) and thought better of it.
Charlie was back in bed when I got home at 2:30 p.m. but he was up by three o'clock. He never forgets what he is supposed to do at 3 p.m. That's his "happy hour." He always tells me, "It's five o'clock somewhere."And there he'll sit, happy as a clam, with his wine glass full, until bedtime.
The "quiet man" suddenly becomes a chatterbox throughout the news and movie(s) he likes to watch, telling me war stories I've heard a thousand times, and asking me over and over what we are doing tomorrow, until it's time to call it a day.
So, that's the story of our life.
Charlie hasn't been out of the house in over a week. There was a quick, disastrous trip to stock the wine cooler—which ended when he had a "personal" accident as we neared home. Not pretty—I'll spare you the details. I don't think that had anything to do with his reluctance to go out today. I doubt if he even remembers it. He just does not want to get out of bed and, even worse, he doesn't want to take a shower; that is always one of my rules for an outing.
I'm sure most of you have had days like this. I'm afraid that one day I may just keep running. But, in the meantime, today's great escape recharged my batteries. And instead of spilling my anger out on him, I vent to you, my readers. Thanks for listening.