Monday Challenge: Misplaced

English: A yellow couch on a rocky cliff beach...

Something’s not quite right. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am coming to you this morning from a strange location: the couch.

I know: I work at home, so I must fucking live on the couch, right? I must wallow in its cushioned embrace until its corduroy lines are imprinted over my tattoos. Its seat must contain lost pens and index cards and story notes to the point where it will someday be examined by future generations as the only known example of a sentient, book-writing piece of furniture.*

Not the case. I mentioned ages ago that I was switching to a standing desk, but even before that, I didn’t usually write on the couch. For one thing, it’s too goddamned comfortable. Too much time on this thing, especially in warm weather, and I’m down for the Odin Sleep. For another, it just doesn’t feel right. I prefer to work at a dedicated workspace.

In other words: couches are for reading, sleeping, and having sex on. Not for working.

The problem at the moment is that I am in the process of replacing my old desk, a lovely 1940s piece, with a big-ass drafting table that I bought from a friend’s mom. The drafting table had to be repainted, so it’s out on the deck waiting for the third coat of Gloss Apple Red–also known as Really Fucking Red–to dry. The old desk is currently enjoying its new life as a bar. Which leaves me with the temporary standing desk I was using for the last couple of months, but there’s so much junk around from the process of moving furniture and reorganizing that I can hardly fit the computer on between the photos, pellet guns, and brass knuckles.

The point of this complaining is that I am, at the moment, out of place. This is not where I should be.*** And the cognitive dissonance is weirding me the fuck out. I might as well be writing in my bathtub. Or in bed.

Today’s Monday Challenge: write someone who is out of place. They are somewhere they do not belong, and they know it. Where are they? Why are they there? What are they going to do about it?

I’m going to go check and see if my desk is dry yet.

*King of Naps: One Couch’s Perspective on Recliners and Other Pretenders To The Throne by Thaddeus P. Chesterfield.**
**Shit, I think I just named my couch. Now I feel weird about sitting on it.
***I will note that I am perfectly capable of writing in other places outside my home. Those are fine. I mentally categorize them as ‘temporary workspace’. The couch, on the other hand, is resisting all attempts at relabelling and insisting that I must be here for a nap.

In Which I Hold A Conversation With A Body Part

CWMI 006 Re-amputation at the hip joint

Later that day, my hip struck out on its own. (Photo credit: otisarchives4)

Me: Ow.

Hip: Oh, hey.

Me:  The fuck? Why do you hurt so much?

Hip: I don’t know. Remember that pop in fencing class a few weeks ago? The one that you didn’t rest properly?

Me: One pulled muscle sidelines me? Bullshit.

Hip: Maybe it’s because you’re in your thirties now and are passing your expiration date.

Me: I am not a dairy product.

Hip: Oh, well then maybe it’s because you’ve spent most of the last twenty years planted in a fucking chair. You ever stop to think what that does to me?

Me: …No. Because you’re a body part.

Hip: One of your body parts, princess. So until things improve around here, I’m going to feel like this.

Me: Ow! Stop it. Look, how am I supposed to run like this? Or do yoga. Or fencing. I thought you liked that stuff.

Hip: I do. But shit’s got to change, or I’m out of here.

Me: You’ll look pretty funny going down the street by yourself.

Hip: You’ll look pretty funny on crutches.

Me: You’re an ass.

Hip: You don’t say.

Me: All right, clearly you have something in mind. What do you want?

Hip: A standing desk.

Me: A standing—do I look like a fucking hipster to you? No.

Hip: Fine. Then I quit.

Me: You can’t quit. You— *falls to floor* All right, I guess you can quit.

Hip: Why do you make me do things like that?

Me: But if I stand all day my calves will explode.

Hip: Ask me if I give a shit. Those slackers have had it easy for two decades. They’re not the ones that feel like broken glass. Let them fucking explode.

Me: But I’ll be tired.

Hip: Okay, buttercup, here’s your choices: be tired for a few weeks, or be a bloated, injury-prone writer carcass that gets eaten first in the zombie apocalypse. That how you want to go?

Me: But I have a desk. One I like. Where they hell would I put another one?

Hip: But that’s the thing: you don’t need another one. Just rearrange some bookshelves and work over there. There’s got to be some reason to having a laptop other than poor posture and bad ergonomics. Or you can ride the pine for the next six months while I mull over healing properly.

Me: I have no choice, do I?

Hip: No, honey. You don’t.

Me: Okay, I’ll cut you a deal: I’ll try the standing desk for November. All my writing will be done there. And I’ll reevaluate at the end. Deal?

Hip: Deal. Now are you going to rearrange those shelves or do I have to do everything myself?

Me:…This is going to be a long month.