On day three of my 8-10 weeks, I was trying to lay in different parts of my bed just to see if things seemed new, fresh, and exciting from a positional change. Day four I decided I had watched all of NetFlix, and by day five I was also out of internet to read. Driving is basically impossible, and having visitors would meed negotiating stairs, which is unappealing at best, and dangerous at mediocre.
At some point during this first few weeks, after thousands of boredom-spurred calls, my father and mother both suggested perhaps a new hobby was in order. New hobbies which don’t require leaving bed or other people are few and far between, as it turns out. Wishing for excitement, I wound up ordering a cross stitch kit from Amazon, thinking that I would make it for my grandmother. At least this would give me something that felt productive while I watched television.
After months* of waiting, the kit arrived, and I started work on it. Reviews had left me with the impression that this kit would provide years worth of work to do. They were probably not wrong, but I had 10 weeks. Challenge accepted!
And so, wishing upon a star for excitement, and praying that I wouldn’t prick my finger and get blood on the embroidery cloth (which Disney has taught me would knock me up), I started making tiny, colourful x’s. I started thinking of this whole process as Minecraft for old ladies: tiny x’s to make tiny squares to make a bigger picture.
It was on the third day that a snag was hit.
I took a break, had a vicodin for lunch, and started on a new colour. A few minutes later, I was ready for a nap. I set my threaded needle on my laptop on my bedside table and crashed out.
I woke up a few hours later and went to pick up my needle. I was pretty sure of where I had left it, but I couldnt find it. My foggy brain wasn’t entirely sure about anything though. I spent the next 16 hours hunting for the needle. This was especially hard given I couldnt really stand. I swiffered my floor, I tried to move my mattress to check under the bed… this resulted in me being stuck between the very heavy mattress and the boxspring for about three hours.
I became, at some point, convinced that the needle had been eaten by a cat. I wanted to blame Dickypaws the Destructor, but I wasn’t sure how he could have planned a heist that involved breaking into a locked room, jumping up onto my laptop, and consuming more than his daily share of iron. This left one suspect:
As I had little outlet for complaint, I called various friends and family members. “There’s no way he ate it.” was the general consensus. “But it was attached to thread!” I argued. “He really likes eating thread! Sometimes when I’m sleeping, he eats my hair. Mostly from the brush, but I would not be surprised to wake up with a bald spot one day.” “No way!” they argued. “He wouldn’t eat a needle. Unpossible.” And so, I let myself be swayed by the court of public opinion. I continued to search for the tiny, tiny needle.
And sure enough, 24 hours into the ordeal, I found it. It was even still threaded!
The culprit was clear, and he seemed no worse for wear. I don’t know what that cats guts are made of, but they are stronger than one magnetized piece of metal. Intestinal fortitude indeed.
*actually a day or two
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