Because the weather is starting to get colder, and because I’m constantly having trouble actually getting out of bed, sans covers, half-awake and half-dressed, listening to Battle Theme from Final Fantasy 7 play over the sound of my landlord potentially beating her children, I decide every once in a while that–solely for my sanity–I have to leave my room.
Which isn’t to say that it isn’t left at regular intervals anyway. That’s the whole point of moving to the city, to get a job or to go to class (incidentally in my case, the same place), and shirk on a collared shirt not as wrinkled as all the other ones in the closet and slip on a pair of Puma socks in black that hopefully will not be noticed under the pressed and hemmed slacks, and walk the block and a half to the subway stop where I descend, unthinking, constantly moving, not even stopping completely while swiping my card (this could potentially become a problem someday, imagining myself careening into a metal pole that doesn’t move, “racking” me in a way I’ve seen a hundred times before), before finally shuffling down the stairs to wait, as I imagine, heroically for the subway.
In my head there is always theme music blasting, and it seems appropriate that I wake up to a battle theme.
So much time is spent in my room that, during a recent lunch with a friend to discuss relationships and writing and how our lives were progressing, what with all the new pressures of school and the oppressive Big City, it was brought up that a general portion of my preliminary high school years hiding in my bed, and how, in the light of hindsight, I may very well have been depressed.
“I mean,” Karen said, “that sounds a lot like depression.”
“Does it?” I asked, sincerely. I’d built up this whole idea of the first few months of my freshman year of high school as a rebellious stance in an otherwise rebellion-free adolescence. I racked up the absences the most way people accidentally finish bags of potato chips (Family Size with a Hint of Lime) when they only meant to eat two or three. But deliberate choice to speak against The Man didn’t correlate with the rest of my Personal Adolescent Narrative, most especially the means of taking down the systematic oppression of my fellow denarians by rolling over in my bed and making the passive decision to let my blinds stay down until around noon. I was sleeping in, perpetually, because I was an anarchist.
“Yea, probably,” Karen said, and laughed, because Karen’s one of those people who can diffuse anything with a laugh, so much so that I really wish we could send her places with gunfire and bombs and just watch as these people were won over slowly with her charming demeanor and left, writing down her number and swearing they were going to add her on Facebook when they got home. “But it’s no big deal.”
The ends of my napkin where frayed, starting to soak up the condensation from my tall glass of ice water. “No. Probably not.”
So, on the rare occasion where I wake up to the sound of a battle starting, orchestra startling the muscles in my arms and legs into flurried action, and the blinds haven’t been mistakenly closed and some 35 1/2 degree angle light somehow finds its way down into my window, and, while waiting for the shower to warm up, I decide to do some push-ups on the bathroom floor (and, after, seeing the disparity between shoulders and stomach, also do some crunches), if all this happens to occur within a precise, perfect succession, along with hitting the challenging notes on the songs I sing in the shower, matching a shirt to a pair of pants without fussing about color schemes, palettes, and complementary natures of stripe patterns versus houndstooth, correctly judging the level of inclemency to the weather that current day, and meditating, which–I really have to say–is the fundamental crux of this whole operation, and if left undone creates the feeling that everything else was useless, that I might not even have brushed my teeth if I wasn’t serious about getting up, if all of this happens, then yes, with all likelihood I will leave my room. Until all this happens I was just fooling around, kidding myself.
I might as well just walk down long staircase to my mom’s room, knock lightly (weakly) on the door, and cough–theatrically–into the fist of my hand, and mutter something about not feeling up to going to school that day, forgoing my armor and my sword, my slings and arrows, and trouncing back up the stairs to my own particular lucarne, where I can recuperate and think about the possibility, the foreseen eventuality, of slaying the dragon.