A Prisoner of Comfort


While walking past the glass windows of the toy store, recognize myself as a middle aged mom, kinda fatter than I deceive myself to be when looking in the mirror at home, after my morning run—an exercise in futility that Richard calls “a jog.”  I complain in counter argument, “my legs are much shorter than yours.”

It’s May 18 and at five am I am awake because no matter how much sunscreen I apply, if I’ve been out for more than an hour in the back yard, I later feel the residual heat in my face.  The house is hot already, our windows down and locked for security.  So being up this early–which could be the beginning of a great writing habit—I text Richard and ask (logically, I think) if we should turn on the air now when it’s cool so our unit won’t have to labor so hard mid-day.

“If you want to.” comes the response.

I know he’d rather not, being used to working outdoors in all seasons, and being the one who pays every bill.

I’ve become a prisoner of all these comforts; abundant food, a schedule with free time for reading, fitness, social events and creativity.  I could rearrange my schedule to fit the season–activity from 5 am to 11, escape from the heat (where?) from lunch till evening…then making myself do something active after stuffing my face at dinner.

With little ambition or striving, with no burning desire to achieve,  with no deadline or goal of any sort, it must mean summer is fast upon me.

Either that, or middle age feels like this.

And I have to accept it, or change.

Which I’m finding harder to do as birthdays roll past.

And now with the cool breeze of the a/c, I’m even less inclined to jump outside and enjoy lots of activity outdoors.

A prisoner of comfort, I must work to find escape.



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