the chair of doom

Many years ago I came home to an unpleasant surprise thought by the one who sprung it to be a great wonderfulness – a large black recliner that when sat in made me feel as if I were an insect caught on its back with nothing to do but slowly die, weakening legs waving frantically and uselessly in the air. I hated it, feeling instinctively that it was a mini nursing home, a prelude to enfeebled helplessness. To recline in that leathery black coffin was an acceptance of uselessness and death. I said I did not like it and went for a long walk through the forest with my dogs. Even now at age 73, I have no such sarcophagus. I drape my meat in no chair of doom.

You might say I have an attitude. Fine. But neither do I resonate with Dylan Thomas’s “rage, rage against the dying of the light.” I’m fine with dying. I simply do not want to lie in my coffin before it is time. In fact, I am beginning to understand why some cultures buried their dead sitting up. Erect.

I know that some reading this are already composing imaginary letters (letters? see how ancient I am? no one writes letters anymore) telling me how wonderful and essential their geezer chairs are. Excellent. Enjoy them. But I’m not going there until they chase me down and put me in restraints. Even when I had a foot operation and my leg would bear no weight, I was crawling around the house.

Mobile 2, this is Mobile 1. My GPS coordinates are now . . . .