In the Pink of Death

I lay in bed. Alone. Left cheek pressed against my pink and white polka-dotted pillow. (pink with white polka dots, not the other way around). My left hand lying straight against my body. My right hand curled up under my chin. My right leg doubled over in a semi-foetal position.

So there I lay, breathing into my pillow, my pink and white polka-dotted pillow.

My pink and white checked blanket (I can’t seem to decide if it’s pink with white checks or white with pink checks, someone bring in a Zebra and let him be the judge) carefully wrapped around me. The edge following my lower lip, wrapping around my shoulders, around my back and disappearing into me.

So, there I lay, cozy as ever wrapped in my pink and white checked blanket.

My morning alarm starts buzzing, vibrating, shrieking. I hate the sound it makes. I hate everything about it. Its repetitiveness, its polyphonic waves, its maniacal vibrations. I’ve tried waking up to calm music, I’ve tried waking up to a pop song, I’ve tried country and I’ve tried jazz, hell I’ve even tried Gangnam style, and discovered I hate them all equally. So I reset it to some built-in alarm tone. If it had to be something I’d eventually hate, it might as well be some noise, some noise that I’d never have to encounter for the remainder of my day. White noise.

So there I lay, alarm screeching, one hand outside my rose coloured wrap.

I only half open my right eyelid, remember that my boss has a meeting all the way around the other side of town and won’t come in to work until mid-day. That means no rude stares for going in to work fifteen minutes late. Great, so that means I can sleep for half an hour more. Somehow, going in to work fifteen minutes later added thirty minutes to my sleep time. Never trust under-the-blanket math, much less under-the-zebraesque-pink and white checked blanket math.

So there I lay, carefully re-positioning myself under my mathematically challenged rouge coloured blanket.

When I was a child my mom was my alarm. She would come into my room and gently kiss me on my forehead and smile down at me and say “Billy darling, its morning!” And I’d smile right back at her. Those were simpler times. I wish someone would wake me up like that again. No, that’s not right, I wish that someone would pull me back into bed and say, “Billy darling, it’s not already morning, is it?”

So there I lay, my bed empty but for my warm, assuring, all-embracing blush coloured blanket.

Sometimes I guess it would be easier to get out of bed if say the fate of the universe depended on it. If my feet hitting the ground with the first rays of the morning sun would save someone from death or disease or degeneration. If I was a superhero who needed to rescue Mumbai city from the evil doings of an anti-hero. I guess that would be a good enough reason for taking the trouble to haul myself out of my comfortable bed. But the city needed no major rescuing today, not from me, it didn’t.

So there I lay, superpower- less or was it super powerless under my less than ordinary pink and white blanket.

So maybe that was the problem. That I’m not doing enough. That I’m not doing something significant enough. Not significant enough to move the world or for that matter not even significant enough to move me.

So there I lay, frozen. Frozen under my candy coloured pink and white checked fluffy blanket. Dead.