The girl and i had a big Saturday. Ikea, Lowe’s, Market Basket. A lot to do, we didn’t know if we had time. What with the ongoing collapse of what we know as civilization and all. Having purchased our own home we feel, understandably i think, attached to it, and accordingly a bit dismayed upon realizing it’s basically stuck in a country that’s fighting for its soul.
So it’s a hell of a thing to put aside, for the moment, the grim specter of fascism, to concentrate on staying married through the relationship test of a trip to Ikea. The prisoner needs some kind of storage unit for her orange coveralls, but which one is best? More drawers, or hangers? Minimalist, or ultra-minimalist clean Scandinavian design? And can this clothes rod be fashioned into a shiv by an average teenager? Somehow we ended this trip having purchased a bed. A serious piece of furniture weighing 200lbs and requiring five hours and three beers worth of assembly. We now have a lot invested in this bed, and it seems somehow wrong to flee to Canada. Sure, it’s possible that brownshirts are going to come for our prisoner someday, on account of her religion (which, to our surprise, turned out to be more than simple devotion to popular accessible-luxury brands), but we just built her this goddamned bed so we’re not leaving.
And that’s before the fucking paint, too. Oh sure, we rounded out our trip by choosing paint colors. In a fit of hubris, now we’ve decided to paint things, as if that somehow means that i’m less likely to be sent to reeducation camps for taunting that fascist Milwaukee sheriff one too many times. “But Herr Kapitan, we just got the bathroom vanity the way we wanted it…” And we’re finally going to mark our door with something other than black Sharpie (one wonders if we could have afforded the place were someone to have scrubbed it off). It’s going to be borderline respectable, and now we’re supposed to leave?
So the next day, we built the bed, painted the damn bathroom, briefly attended a beer festival we bought tickets for a month ago, and then went to a protest. But i’m not gonna lie, it feels weird sometimes to do normal things. To worry about painting something, or visiting grandparents or in-laws, to wonder if the Revs are going to have a competent backline, or to think about how much i want a cheeseburger, or to worry about building the best thingies i can at work.
There’s a pinch of guilt with all these things, a little sting to remind me that this is complacency, complacency to which we’re all entitled–truly, life does indeed need to go on–but needs to be checked. If i want to keep my freshly painted door to my new condo in the best city in all the world, it demands this vigilance. If we ever get too comfortable, too distracted, and go back to our big Saturdays, someday there might not be 200,000 people ready to fight. And then i’ll have to find someone to move that friggin’ bed, because i promise you i’m not doing it.