©2022 Michael Raven
Boxing Day, right?
For some reason, as a child, I envisioned a pair of kangaroos with boxing mitts going at it all Mohammad Ali-like was the purpose of Boxing Day. They’d go at it and eventually one would receive the KO punch while the referee would jump into the ring and raise high the forearm of the victor. I would shake my head, wondering what drove those crazy Brits to such things.
By about third grade, I realized there were no victorious kangaroo arm-raising in rings. But I kept imagining it mostly because of the absolute absurdity of the visuals I was left with.
If I haven’t made it clear, I really dig absurdity.
And it seems absurd to me that I am sitting here alone on a cold winter’s morning (-2F/-19C), the sun glaring bright and blinding off the powdery, white snow, with only cats for company — just how quiet the house is this morning. I quite like it, honestly. I have plans for tomorrow (oil change, a spot of grocery shopping), but today I am basking in nuthindoin’, the crows telling me that it is damned cold outside, and no responsibilities to speak of. I might allow myself to medicate a bit more than I typically do today — I am always reluctant to do so when the kids are around and suspect that is why I have a really stubborn muscle spasm that is on the cusp of letting go, but won’t. Allowing myself a little more freedom might be the ticket.
Then I can turn on the television and imagine I am watching a pair of kangaroos punching at each other, not really caring which wins, or either of them wins.
And then bake some brownies to eat all by myself.