Blog: Comatose

Burt Ross

I’m not sure whether I am in a semi-comatose state or in a full blown coma, but what I can tell you unequivocally is that this damn pandemic is sapping whatever little strength I ever had.

I am beyond a couch potato. I have become an integral part of my couch, no less a part of it than the upholstered cushions. I am watching so much Netflix that if I am not allowed out of my house pretty soon, I am going to run out of content to watch. I have now watched more episodes of “Anne” than I care to remember, and I don’t even like the show.

When David Attenborough does a show featuring slow moving organisms, he is going to film a slug, a sloth, and some guy named Burt living in Malibu who can barely move anymore.

I have done some higher math recently, and I have calculated that based on my daily activity since this pandemic started (seems like a thousand years ago), I am averaging around 25 calories a day-not consumed but burned up.  Brushing my teeth may well be the most physical thing I do each day. For reasons I do not understand, the less I do physically, the more I want to eat, and I don’t mean broccoli.

I am doing so little that it reminds me of my Great Uncle Ben (no, not the rice guy).  Uncle Ben was married to my Great Aunt Etta, who was a fireball of energy. She was a member of the Polar Bear Club, people who run into the Atlantic Ocean off of Coney Island during the winter. Ben was the complete opposite. The few times he visited my home, Ben would plop into the most comfortable chair, close his eyes, and never say a word. To this day I could not swear Uncle Ben actually had vocal cords.

Why, you might ask, do I bring Uncle Ben up now? Well, when I was told that Uncle Ben had passed on, I asked rather innocently, “How could anybody tell?” I am afraid that if this pandemic and lockdown continue for much longer, I might become entirely indistinguishable from my couch, and were I to expire, people might ask, “How could you tell?”