Emancipation Proclamation

I'm declaring a truce. Calling "uncle". Admitting defeat. Heretofore I have kept up my end of being a responsible human/woman by taking on duties and showing up to fulfill whatever obligations I have agreed to. I am no longer willing to do that. I'm divorcing the human race, if you will. I'm calling a time out. This is me making that "T" thing with my hands that you see in basketball games. I'm getting off at this stop. Don't bother to look for me, call my name, or report me missing. I won't be missing; I just won't be responding to anything I formerly jumped up to do. I won't be crashing around trying to get ready anymore. I won't be tearing out of the driveway hoping that I didn't run over Mugsy. I've had enough of all of it. I'm no longer answering the phone knowing that the voice on the other end probably wants me to do something. From now on you will find me sipping something cool from a deck chair. You'll notice a scattering of books on my lap and at my feet and I may or may not have brushed my teeth or combed my hair. Please walk carefully around my basket of knitting. If you need to address me, do it softly. I would prefer you didn't address me, but if you have come bringing me something to eat or read, I'll acknowledge you, but don't expect me to carry on a conversation. I'm not being rude; I just don't want to run the risk that your presence might require that I leave my deck chair (shudder). My bed will still look disheveled from the night previously spent. Don't look for anything edible in my cupboards, refrigerator, or oven. Don't be dismayed by a layer of dust. I divorced my dustrag too. I'm slouching and staring blankly into the mountains to the west. I'm studying a hangnail for 90 minutes. I'm remembering second grade and the time someone threw up during a spelling bee and everyone froze, including the teacher. But then I (why me?) ran to the cupboard under the drinking fountain and found a rag for the teacher--even though she hadn't requested it. That's what I'll be thinking about if you come and find me somewhat catatonically checked out. Or else I'll be re-enacting receiving that trophy I got for being a somewhat above average left fielder in high school. You might be dismayed that I'm no longer going to make suggestions or plan outings or try and get a group of folks together to traipse off into the Alps. I'm going to lay low...Yeah, I'm going to check out right after I scramble up a gift and head out to a bridal shower. Do you think anyone there will comment on the fact that I'm wearing purple Crocs and a somewhat ripe shirt that says "Kids are my business" over the left breast pocket? My hair is kind of windblown and needs a weedwhacking. My right eye is looking lazy--it's something I inherited. It causes just about everyone I meet to say, "You look tired," whereby I usually respond that I feel GREAT!!! I may go and sit quietly in a corner counting mosquito bites once I get to the shower. Or I may get lost by squeezing myself between some marathon talkers. But just as soon as I get home I'm going to hibernate. Until at least tomorrow at noon...then it's SHOWTIME yet again. And again. And again...