I have this weird fantasy I probably shouldn’t admit to, but hey! Why not, right? It’s not kinky (or it’s very kinky, depending on your point of view). In this scenario, I’m sick with something vague but tiring. I require hospitalization, but not at areal hospital. A hospital that’s more like a spa with doctors. It’s very quiet. I must sit in bed, read, watch movies and eat ice cream sundaes for health reasons.
Occasionally, a doctor will come in and give me some drug that makes me fall asleep—ether, maybe, since it seemed to work in the Bugs Bunny cartoons I watched as a child. McIrish sits by my side, not terribly worried but needing to be there for me. There are flowers and excellent lighting. No nurses interrupt me, the mattress is luxurious and not plastic, there are no IVs or beeping machines.
Also, I’m wearing a bed jacket. Something fluffy and short so as not to entangle my person. Picture Greta Garbo here.
McIrish knows of this goal of mine, since I remind him almost daily. “I need to go to the hospital” has a different connotation in our house than the usual cry for help. Instead, I get a dreamy look on my face as I picture my lengthy recovery from…whatever. The books I’ll read. The naps I’ll take. The flowers (no lilies, please), the hushed and concerned voices. The bed jacket.
And lo…on Christmas morning, I opened a box and, as I saw the contents, began squeaking with joy. It was a bed jacket!
On the nights when McIrish is at the firehouse, I put on my jammies, fluff up our many pillows, get the book, my computer, Willow and the myriad items I require for sleep—a tissue, the little pillow, the Vicks inhaler, my phone so I can listen to a podcast or call 911 when the zombies attack. I open the windows and then…yes…I put on my bed jacket, recline gracefully (or not) and sigh with contentment.
A girl can dream.