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HOOKAH-HOOKAH
TOBACCO
*/10x,;20x, 40^
TOO LAZY TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT
I 'm thinking about sin these days. Nothing
bawdy or tawdry, and also not your quo
tidian venial sins,,no sir. Bring in the big
guns, please: the Seven Deadly Sins. I learned
them with the acronym PEGLAWS: Pride, Envy,
Gluttony, Lust, Avarice, Wrath, Sloth. So nice and
orderly they seem, lined up (in my mind at least)
wearing pageant sashes bearing their names.
Pride's sash is of course gleaming radiantly, and
is crisply pressed. Envy's looks just fine, but Envy
is eyeing Pride's scarf with great longing. Oh!
Look at Gluttony! The little fatty has attempted
to gnaw on his a bit, and its corner still has
some drool on it from his exploratory chewing.
Lust seems to have put on his sash incorrectly,
and it's between his legs. That's a little off, isn't
it? Avarice is gazing off into the middle distance,
wondering how he can steal everyone's sashes
and sell them on eBay. Wrath is on the verge of
garroting Avarice with his sash. And over
in the corner of the stage, his musty little £
feet peeping from beneath the curtain,
there's my favorite—Sloth. A little pudgy, a S
little mussed, dozing blissfully. 3
Sloth. Such a nice, friendly, pettable
little sin. I find it hard to believe that
anyone would dub Sloth a Deadly. Sloth.
Winter, I think, brings out the Sloth in me
more than most times of the year (although
the sludgy Georgia summers make me want
to put on an eye mask, crank the AC down
to 60 degrees, and nap those foul and hu
mid months away). The adrenalized thrill
of the holidays having passed, the drippy
and cold grey, the vacillations between
spring-like brightness and dismal, bitter
weather—they morph into a glum and
motley dervish of outerwear, umbrellas and
damp, tracked-in leaves that demand some
sort of respite. I'll roll with Sloth, although
Gluttony can come along for the ride, as
snacking is very important.
W ith the cluttery, nap-perfect and
house-bound wintertime upon us,
I sometimes just wish that there were a way
to briefly return to the days of easy, breezy,
semi-solitary Sloth, before responsibilities and
children and the concomitant neediness—the
days when rest and solitude were attainable
by just not leaving one's apartment. On those
unfortunate days when I am unable even to
visit the bathroom alone, due to a needy child
rap-rap-rapping at my chamber door, I remember,
with painful nostalgia, the minute three-room
apartment where I first lived alone. After a week
of grown-up pressures at my big-girl job, I could
lock the door, get a bottle of wine and some
books, and hole up for the weekend. Just the two
of us, Circe the cat and me, reading and eating
and napping. Heaven—slothful, lazy heaven.
I had—and have—a veritable menu of books
appropriate for just such lounging occasions.
1. When you're under the weather and feel
like a child, try the Laura Ingalls Wilder
books. Nothing like Half-Pint's adventures
in Manifest Destiny to smooth your way to
sleep. (The bizarre wanderlust of Pa is a
topic for another time.)
2. Loathing your children and wish you
wouldn't? Raffaella Barker's charming Hens
Dancing and Summertime.
3. Feeling simultaneously clever and fa
tigued? The incomparable Phantom
Tollbooth, by Norton Juster. Jules Feiffer's
illustrations alone are a balm for the soul.
(Who could not fall in love with Tock the
Watchdog?)
4. Feeling bluesy and louche? (This is a fam
ily secret, but I am feeling generous.) The
glorious adventures of Imogene Wells/ Van
Rappard/ Van Ryker, as rendered by Valerie
Sherwood in a fabulous, bodice-ripping
quadrilogy? Er... quatrain? Ummm... set
of four fabulous, tasteful-yet-slightly-
naughty romance novels: Rash Reckless
Love. Bold Breathless Love. Rich Radiant
Love. Wild Willful Love.
5. Wishing you had somewhere intriguing to
go and some gorgeously written intrigue
to muck around in once you get there?
Confessing o Murder, by Nicholas Drayson.
Or Andorra or The City of Your Final
Destination, by Peter Cameron. Dreamy.
6. For always and whenever, the best of the
best: Angle of Repose, by Wallace Stegner.
I frequently enjoy this treasure in the
bathtub, a place where I'm usually guaran
teed some solitude, although it is its mag
nificent self wherever you take it. It may
be the perfect book, although if you read
it in the bathtub, you will have to replace
it frequently.
W hen my longing for abject, self-indulgent
laziness becomes overwhelming, my sublime
husband Winston will send me off for a Hens'
Weekend. I take my books, and I tread my usual
path, back to my beloved Charlottesville, where
Winston's aunt and uncle have a house, and are
also generous enough to allow me to use it. On
my way, I load up on sweet tea with lemon and
mediocre music and fast food. Once there, hap
pily ensconced in the Blue.Ridge with my perfect
sister Paige and my perfect friend Paden and
copious amounts of good wine and good cheese
and better talk. Sloth can be honored properly.
I have learned, however, that Sloth and I need
supervision. We need someone around to help us
avoid the pitfalls of solitary indolence.
On a recent trip to my Mecca of
Charlottesville, I took my darling, my treasure,
my good dog Colonel. He is the ideal traveling
partner. Doesn't talk. Only wants your company
(and your food). Requires minimal bathroom
breaks. Excels at napping, that noblest of
sports, the sport of kings and Colonels. Our first
evening in Virginia, my girls came out, and we
enjoyed a lovely, self-indulgent evening, loung
ing on the patio, eating cheese and gazing out
at the Shenandoah Valley. Once my partners in
Sloth departed for the real world the next day,
trouble began. Colonel and I shared a gorgeous
dinner from Doner's, the best restaurant in the
world, and then the problem with solitary Sloth
emerged. I convinced myself that it was danger
ous to be alone for days and days in a heavenly,
100-year-old farmhouse with Valley views. I
mean, you never can tell when some scary movie
might be reenacted, and that scary child from
The Grudge (of which I was able to watch a terri
fied. eye-covering 10 minutes) might show up, or
even (and this is my own invention, of which I'm
absurdly proud) a Mad Zombie Farmer who waits
out in the driveway just beyond where the lights
go. Because he is cagey, that Mad Zombie Farmer,
he would wait just until Colonel is out of range
to bark and warn me, and then eat my head, or
at least appear, all rotty, in one of the sidelights
outside the front door. And then Colonel would
run away (because he is not the bravest of dogs)
and never be found because no one will want to
waste long-distance money by calling the number
on his collar since it's in Georgia.
Had I not been so scared of the Zombie
Farmer and the Grudge Child, I might have
prepared for the contingency of having my
head eaten by one of them. I might have
made Colonel a temporary collar bearing
collect-calling instructions, in anticipation
of the interim between my unfortunate
demise via Zombie Farmer/ Scary Grudge
Child, and Winston's arriving to retrieve
Colonel. However, the laundry room and
pantry, where masking tape and pens were
surely to be found, were also close to the
back door, made entirely of glass, which
clearly was not a good choice for me at
that point in my evening.
I should learn something from the ex
perience of lurking around an entirely
safe and well-lit house out in the country,
either averting my eyes from all windows
or slamming frantically against them and
peering out at all angles, the better to
spy the Scary Grudge Child or the Zombie
Farmer. Meanwhile Colonel (a veritable
monument to Sloth) slept tranquilly on the
sofa. Yes. I should take this experience and
learn that solitary drinking should begin before
the sun goes down, the better to ward off one's
own imagination. I should learn that solitary
Sloth is treacherous. I should also learn that, like
Eva Gabor before me. farm living's not the life for
me. unless accompanied by my girls. Sadly, I am
not as solitary a soul as I thought. I am, how
ever, just as slothful as I feared. (Winston and I
decided that, no offense to Colonel my perfect
pet would be an actual sloth—two-toed or three
toed— I'm not picky. It would be perfect. I could
put it down in the living room, pop a Benadryl,
log a good three-hour nap, and by that time, my
sloth would have made its creaky way back to
my bedroom and could wake me up for a snack.
I don't think sloths enjoy cocktail party food, so
I'm willing to lay in a supply of grubs or lichen
or whatever they prefer. That way I wouldn't
have to share my food.)
Anyway, after this terrifying evening, I have
never been so glad to be with people. When I
finally got back to Athens, I found a chalk hi
eroglyph on our front walk, created by Winston
and my son William and comprising a drawing
of a well, a comb, and a house: welcome home.
And, despite my grouching and longing for self-
indulgent slothfulness, I was indeed happy to be
well-combed-home. Also, despite my penchant
for greedily boosting my Saturday naps with
Benadryl in order to further my time sleeping,
I must conclude that Sloth is a gift, a gorgeous
luxury to be enjoyed sparingly, like mayonnaise.
A little goes a long way: too much can be dan
gerous and unhealthy, and it's no good by itself.
Elise White
www.painandwonder.com
(706) 208*9588
2S5 \\ . Washington Street
Athens, Georgia 30601
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