Cocoon

She was tired.

Not like regular tired.  Tired to the bones. With her tote bag, purse, and lunch tote slung over her shoulders, the only thing that she could stretch was her neck and it was impossible to bend in a way that would relieve the tension.  Honestly, she wished there was a procedure she could have done that would separate every muscle and joint, massage relief into the very DNA of each part of her anatomy, and put her back together again. Whole. Improved.  Refreshed. Anything but tired.

And it wasn’t so much that it had been a difficult time at work.  Work was work. Late evenings had become expected. Sad desks lunches were the norm.  Conference calls that went way too long because men get off on the sound of hearing their own voices and over talking women. Email notifications that never ceased.  Ever. Yes it was routine malaise mixed with the weight of the capitalist society. Or maybe she just needed a nap and a good meal. Who’s ever able to tell the difference?

But it was Friday and she answered a simple, uncomplicated “no” to every invite to a happy hour/ girls night/drinks after work/quick get together invite that came her way.  Usually there was a “okay, but…” or a “no, I have to…” but those got broken down and Friday night too soon turned into Saturday morning and errands still had to be run to make it through the next week of the same hellscape of monotony. And before you knew it, Sunday evening was upon you.  So every invite was offered a swift no with no further explanation that left every person who asked a little taken aback. It was nice enough to not be rude, but so out of character they knew not to question it.  She knew it gave off the illusion she was up to more and she kind of liked it that way.  Maybe she would be.

Instagram would have her to believe that Friday nights were reserved for some form of self care routine that involved good lighting and marble countertops with high quality photography of your sheet mask and bath bomb and cuppa tea.  Twitter would call for the “washed” check in where everyone that was over 25, or broke, would chime in with their unexciting tasks for the night. Influenced enough however, she had purchased a very aromatic body wash from a ridiculously expensive store that made sure you knew which human made your clay treatment and the employee’s use of natural deodorant ensured that nobody would ever buy the product.

Finally alleviating  the weight of all the baggage from the day (days week months) on her couch, she set off to the bathroom for the longest, hottest shower.  Dammit if the shower gel wasn’t as luxurious as she thought it would be. Worth the price tag for sure. The phone robot that she paid to let the government spy on her kept a constant stream of soothing music.  And before she was set to be done, she asked the polite robot woman to order a large pizza to be delivered to her apartment.

One business trip, the hotel the office put her up in had the most luxurious, softest sheets she’d ever slept on.  The concierge pulled out a business card for the textiles company and told her to give them his name and they’d send over the sheets.  She’d balked when they gave her the price, so she slowed down and said the concierge’s name a little clearer because surely this was not the discounted rate.  But it was. And it was worth more than her mattress (and that cost too damn much already) but she owed it to herself and bought the damn sheets. Depending on your beliefs, you only live once or so, so might as well be comfortable.  Just like the shower gel, the sheets had proved to be worth the money spent.

She got some pillows from the guest room to simulate the comfort of that hotel bed, and as she turned the air conditioner down to 62 degrees, the doorbell rang signaling the arrival of her pizza.  She cinched the towel on her robe and opened up the door.

The smell hit her nose from the box.  It was going to be the best pizza that was ever slung into a brick oven. She looked at the light grey sheets and back at the pizza box.  Then back at the sheets. Pizza box. She put a towel in the bed and grabbed some paper towels. Put her phone on silent and put it in the bed on the charger.  Place two one-liter bottles of Ozarka on her nightstand. She was set up. A multi-season show on Hulu would be the perfect background noise for this hibernation that was set to occur.

Later, when the sun came through the the window and pierced the 500-thread count blankets, she felt…refreshed.  Disoriented but refreshed. Was it Saturday? Sunday? Surely couldn’t have been Monday. Surely she would have gotten up to use the restroom or eat again or something.  Whatever day it was, she had slept way too long because there was a slight rustling sound in her ear.

She peeled back the layers of Egyptian cotton and stretched.  Full body stretch. And it was good. It confirmed that her escape from the outside world was warranted.  She looked down at the empty pizza box shocked that the entire large pie was demolished. Warranted. Her body felt good.  Nothing was sore or crooked. The air seemed fresher. She felt lighter. Hulu was still running Bob’s Burgers and she laughed at the Belchers for a few minutes before finally untangling the bottom half of her body from the sheets and heading to the bathroom.

And that’s when she noticed the change.  

Her arms had been replaced with wings.  Her hair wasn’t placed atop her head in a ponytail anymore.  Antenna were in the way. No longer needing legs, she had two gorgeous, symmetrically decorated wings with splashes of warm brown and golden yellows.  She had emerged a new creature.

And she was no longer tired.