Lazy Shade of Winter
Winter break brings out the worst in me.
After a semester of running around bitching and moaning about all the work that was piling up, and consequently doing more bitching and moaning than actual work, the arrival of winter break hit me like a ton of bricks laced with Ambien and carbohydrates. The prospect of no deadlines or responsibilities for three whole weeks was both liberating and lethal. I wasted no time morphing into full hibernation mode; unlike music or writing, I had spent my entire life immersed in the art of being lazy, and had long since perfected it.
My bed became the headquarters for this extended bout of sloth. Propping my laptop at the foot of the queen-size beast, I spent the majority of my days in resplendent languor, elbows anchored in front of the computer, legs spread starfish-like atop the pillows.
In a few short weeks, I managed to inject an entire semester's worth of TV into my skull. It was a feat of Olympic proportions. Now for some arbitrary awards doled out by me, akin to the Emmys or Grammys but better because I'm giving them out (the Choochys? Might work) :
- Best New Guilty Pleasure: Privileged (Gossip Girl in Palm Beach? Yes please)
- Best New Favorite Show on TV, Ever: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia (Watched all four seasons. Unhealthy and addicting, like nicotine and meth)
- Best Show That I Haven't Seen But Wish I Had The Time To Watch Because I'd Doubtless Fall In Love: Mad Men (Watched a couple episodes over the summer, but they're hour-long episodes and span two seasons. A challenge for the next extended vacation?)
Every once in awhile I'd be forced to emerge from my Cave of Considerable Thread Count to scavenge for sustenance or empty my bowels of by-product of said sustenance. Eat, sleep, poop. Preferably not consecutively. After years of envying my dog's blissfully simple life, I had finally achieved it. I congratulated myself with a celebratory nap.
Soon the cave gave way to unwelcome intruders. The pillows were buried in a landslide of clothes, haphazardly strewn about and pathetically marinating as I hunkered down in the covers over the weeks in various states of undress. Empty water bottles piled up; the bed began masquerading as a recycling plant. Price tags snapped off of new clothes; miscellaneous cords (headphones, iPod USB, phone charger); bubble wrap from the unsuccessful attempt at avant-garde plastic packaging fashion; all became pawns in the ruthless hostile takeover by inanimate object of my sanctuary.
Sometimes an uncharacteristic spark of productivity would alight within me, and I would sate this unnatural urge with much-needed practice or exercise. Unfortunately, this spark was but an ember protruding from ashen, cooling coals, brutally extinguished by the promise of unwatched episodes of "Always Sunny" eagerly awaiting my return to the cave.
It's Sunday, January 4, 2009. In less than a week I make my return to Baltimore, expectations, and disappointments. Reality, in short. I am already beginning to regret my carefree sabbatical over these past couple weeks. The new semester brings ulcer-inducing prospects of audition tapes for competitions and summer festivals, 27 academic credits, and The Most Important Audition of My Life Thus Far (And Quite Possibly Ever).
It's been a good run. But now it's time to leave the cave.
After a semester of running around bitching and moaning about all the work that was piling up, and consequently doing more bitching and moaning than actual work, the arrival of winter break hit me like a ton of bricks laced with Ambien and carbohydrates. The prospect of no deadlines or responsibilities for three whole weeks was both liberating and lethal. I wasted no time morphing into full hibernation mode; unlike music or writing, I had spent my entire life immersed in the art of being lazy, and had long since perfected it.
My bed became the headquarters for this extended bout of sloth. Propping my laptop at the foot of the queen-size beast, I spent the majority of my days in resplendent languor, elbows anchored in front of the computer, legs spread starfish-like atop the pillows.
In a few short weeks, I managed to inject an entire semester's worth of TV into my skull. It was a feat of Olympic proportions. Now for some arbitrary awards doled out by me, akin to the Emmys or Grammys but better because I'm giving them out (the Choochys? Might work) :
- Best New Guilty Pleasure: Privileged (Gossip Girl in Palm Beach? Yes please)
- Best New Favorite Show on TV, Ever: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia (Watched all four seasons. Unhealthy and addicting, like nicotine and meth)
- Best Show That I Haven't Seen But Wish I Had The Time To Watch Because I'd Doubtless Fall In Love: Mad Men (Watched a couple episodes over the summer, but they're hour-long episodes and span two seasons. A challenge for the next extended vacation?)
Every once in awhile I'd be forced to emerge from my Cave of Considerable Thread Count to scavenge for sustenance or empty my bowels of by-product of said sustenance. Eat, sleep, poop. Preferably not consecutively. After years of envying my dog's blissfully simple life, I had finally achieved it. I congratulated myself with a celebratory nap.
Soon the cave gave way to unwelcome intruders. The pillows were buried in a landslide of clothes, haphazardly strewn about and pathetically marinating as I hunkered down in the covers over the weeks in various states of undress. Empty water bottles piled up; the bed began masquerading as a recycling plant. Price tags snapped off of new clothes; miscellaneous cords (headphones, iPod USB, phone charger); bubble wrap from the unsuccessful attempt at avant-garde plastic packaging fashion; all became pawns in the ruthless hostile takeover by inanimate object of my sanctuary.
Sometimes an uncharacteristic spark of productivity would alight within me, and I would sate this unnatural urge with much-needed practice or exercise. Unfortunately, this spark was but an ember protruding from ashen, cooling coals, brutally extinguished by the promise of unwatched episodes of "Always Sunny" eagerly awaiting my return to the cave.
It's Sunday, January 4, 2009. In less than a week I make my return to Baltimore, expectations, and disappointments. Reality, in short. I am already beginning to regret my carefree sabbatical over these past couple weeks. The new semester brings ulcer-inducing prospects of audition tapes for competitions and summer festivals, 27 academic credits, and The Most Important Audition of My Life Thus Far (And Quite Possibly Ever).
It's been a good run. But now it's time to leave the cave.