For graduation, I acquired a lovely book called 642 Things to Write About, which was compiled by the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto. As a direct result of this, I have now challenged my fellow Word Nerds to respond to each prompt as they are posted on a weekly basis. I will respond in the body of this post, while I ask everyone else to respond in the comments. This week, the prompt is the following:
You are an astronaut. Describe your perfect day.
When I was a boy, I was…incredibly average, actually. I liked TV—my favorite show was Power Rangers. I disliked (and by ‘disliked,’ I mean ‘hated’) both school and reading. I wanted to be an astronaut.
Here’s where it gets to be less average: I actually became one. An astronaut, I mean.
This is especially ironic because the becoming part of “becoming an astronaut” required an inordinate amount of both school and reading, and little to no Power Rangers.
Although being an astronaut sounds like the most glorious existence possible to a kid, filled with daily adventures surrounding flying and, best of all, infallible proof that aliens do exist, here’s the plain fact of the matter: being an astronaut is boring. Except when it’s not; then it’s merely time zooming by at light speed, punctuated only by your mortal terror and, occasionally, your neighbor puking. While wearing his helmet. Because life just isn’t fair.
So, all things considered, this is my perfect day:
I sleep in a little and get up around eight. I stay in my pajamas, amble downstairs, and am greeted with a giant pile of pancakes, a warm coffee with no less than 12 sugars, and a newspaper–all provided by my shiningly beautiful wife (who happens to be a supermodel).
Around noon, I go outside, and, in the front yard, play ball with my dog and/or two kids for a couple hours.
Around four, I mow the lawn. Then, I go inside and watch TV for an hour or so.
At 5 o’clock sharp, I go out back and grill the exquisite burgers that my glorious wife has made, and at 5:30, the four of us sit and eat the burgers and potato salad and other divine side dishes that are courtesy of my stunning wife. The kids drink sodas, and my wife and I have a beer.
Then, the kids go play until bedtime while us adults sit and talk.
Then we go to bed.
See, it’s perfect, right?
Too bad I don’t have any kids. Or a dog. Or a wife. Or a house. Or a TV.
P.S. I’m am so, so dreadfully sorry it’s taken me so long to post this. This week has sort of hated me.