Nascent Pleasure

It is not uncommon for me to think I have autism.   Okay…to be honest…its not uncommon for me to think I have cancer, brittle bone disease, leprosy and greasy hair syndrome.

But when I find it hard to focus I tend to think I have ADD or Autism.  And ADD, or ADHD as many people tell me I should call it, is extremely passe and no longer in vogue.   Autism is pretty hot right now.   Dear god…if there were a hell…that is one of many comments that will send me there.

Why do I bring this up?    Because I finally got a Slanket!

Yes…a sleeved blanket.   And no…not a snuggie.   What do you take me for?   A tasteless couch potato???   I am a sloth with class.  My roommate and I decided for the holiday season to get each other Slankets as gifts.  This was a terribly exciting prospect for me.  So of course, naturally, my slanket got lost in transition and the order was cancelled…then reordered….then Fed Ex decided to taunt me for several days before finally delivering it.

The slanket…for those who do not know is the much higher end (ORIGINAL) version of the snuggie.  It’s a higher quality fleece…longer…and, for the owner, it comes with an exclusive kitsch that it is the best reviewed of all the sleeved blankets.

Snuggie bad.  Snuggie cliche.  Snuggie stupid thing that everyone else does.

Slanket good.  Slanket unique.  Slanket awesome thing that true individuals all buy at the same time to become cooler, slightly more hip cloned sheep.

After all of the waiting, the justifying, and shameless boasting you may be curious…was it worth it?

Absofuckinlutley.   Its effin’ ridonkulous.  I mean think about it.  Its a blanket…but with sleeves…for with to stay warm and feel like a druid from a distant future at the same time.

I can hold a remote and not let my arm get cold.  I can walk to my fridge…grab a diet Dr. pepper and back to the couch and not say to myself, “My what is that chill in the air?”

I am already saving on heating costs.

I can blog and stay warm at the same time.   If there were a heaven…it would be a slanket buffet.  I am convinced.

Also this holiday season one of my dearest friends in all of Sleeved-Blanketdom gave me a tremendously fluffy warm bath robe.   I had never owned one.   Typically, I do not make a habit of buying practical things for myself that might make life a little better and more comfortable.  My dearest friend does make a habit of purchasing these things (see: winter boots…seriously…Lauren…you saved me from losing a foot to frostbite)   I would always talk about hating the winter because in the mornings running from the shower to my room always ended up with me doing the “Dance of The Cold Floor”.  Or when waking up hungover on the weekend (see:  EVERY WEEKEND) how I would stumble from my bed to the couch and immediately pull thirty blankets on myself just to retain a bit of the womblike sleep I just left.   With the bath robe i was able to crawl out of bed (LITERALLY CRAWL) slip on the robe and lay around my living room for the bulk of the afternoon in absolute comfort.  How I lived without the robe or the slanket is beyond me.  (Although last weekend I actually paid for my delivery food while wearing the robe and there was moment…albeit brief…where i felt a hint of shame at my only level of sloth…the delivery sandwich deftly quelled that shame).

I sometimes crave the womb.   Or the pressure of that womb at least.  I cannot recount the number of times I have woken up in the morning tangled in a mess of sheets and pillows on my bed with my comforter pulled up over my head with the end tucked tightly under my feet.  There is something with the warmth…the darkness…the sound of my breath and, if I am silent enough, the beating of my own heart.  It calms me down…reminds me to breathe and for a second stops time.   Under that blanket, wrapped in that robe, or snuggled in that Slanket the world, for however brief a time is kept at bay.  I’m not sure how to describe how tremendously comforting it is to me, except to say it gives me peace.  A strange peace.

After a typically loathsome day (See: this past tuesday…a lot of Tuesdays lately) I often come home, kick of my shoes my socks, of course my pants, crawl into bed and make a womb.   I close my eyes and pull in tightly…flexing my feet…balling my fingers into fists…tucking my chin to my chest…and float.   Some days just for a minute, some days for an hour, but when I emerge…a small piece of the day is my own again.   That is priceless.

Its a common treatment for autistic people.  Not slankets…not bath robes…but womb therapy.   Warmth.  Pressure.  Embrace.  One of my favorite fiction authors, Douglas Coupland, wrote about it in his novel “jPod”.  In the book, he comically theorized that all video game designers, and perhaps creative minds, fall somewhere on the autism spectrum.  So one of the employees of the design firm in the book, creates a “hug machine”.   The machine isn’t fiction.  Its used as a therapy tool for children with autism and behavioral disorders.  I am terribly interested in trying one out.

To me, it makes nothing but perfect sense.  I’m not a huge fan of cuddling or hugging my friends…I’m sure my most of my friends know this.   I never give in fully to that hug.  There is always a small piece of me that pulls back.   That’s armor I suppose.   And yet another thing on my long list of things I am working on.   But their embraces do me good…they remind me not to be impenetrable.

But now…NOW…I have a plethora of womb therapy options.

I just need to remember to take them off from time to time.  To pay for my delivery without the cocoon.  Be a bit more naked.  Well…not entirely…not yet…and not in front of the delivery boy.