You may have noticed that posting has been rather sparse lately. Life has trumped my blog time, with the result that I’ve been rather frazzled for over two weeks. Volunteer activities at my son’s school, ortho appointments for my daughter, dental appointments for yours truly, along with the regular mishmash of household chores, errands and responsibilities have all combined to keep me away from the computer. Ordinarily, less time at the computer means that I’m accomplishing more in the “real world,” and that usually ensures lower stress levels since it means the kids all have clean clothes, the house is clean, and I’m on top of paying bills and doing dishes.

But not today.

There comes a point when being responsible and self-disciplined actually become counter-productive, when the comfort of a daily routine becomes mind-numbing and the soul cries out for creative release.

So, today I am a lump.

I am a firm believer that everyone needs a day of lumpenness once in a while, a day on which they refuse to answer the phone, refuse to clean or organize, to shop or sort and sometimes even to shower. To properly pursue the true state of lumpenness, I suppose, one probably shouldn’t read the news or respond to email and instead should hunker down beneath a cozy blanket on the sofa doing nothing more strenuous or challenging than opening cans of Pringles and flipping between sitcoms. I’ve not yet attained such a stage, although I remain steadfast in my pursuit of the unbearable lightness of lumpenness.

For me, it’s enough to be sitting here wearing the same sweats I shrugged on as I stumbled out of bed, with nothing more on my agenda than catching Becker after The Nanny re-runs end on Lifetime. I have a full pot of coffee and a half-empty box of Cocoa Puffs awaiting my attention. I’ve turned off my phone and warned my husband not to expect dinner waiting when he gets home. Being a lump means that today — at least until 30 minutes before my son gets out of school — I’m doing nothing of importance to anyone but me.

Oh, I’ll probably blog a thing or two, but then again I may not. I may give myself a pedicure, but then again I may decide to read all day instead. I love to think that I’ll use this time to finish writing another chapter of my novel, but the need to do nothing may very well override that. Of one thing I’m certain: I won’t commit to do anything more than doing nothing at all.

My friends often make fun of me for spending days like this. Recently, one asked if I wanted to spend today having lunch but I declined by explaining my plan to spend Thursday “being a lump.” He thought this hilarious, possibly because he’s young and single and thus hasn’t spent years having his day scheduled according to the waking/eating/playing/screaming schedule of a young child. He can call in sick to work if he feels mentally overwhelmed. He can stand in front of his refrigerator eating leftover pizza from the box for three days straight and feel proud that he’s eating at home. He can use paper towels if he doesn’t get to the store to buy more toilet paper, and no one will think any less of him. He isn’t a parent — his existence hasn’t been defined and shaped by his obligations to spouse and kids, and that means he doesn’t understand the need for occasional lumpenness.

I try explaining to him that lumpenness is a way to decompress before gladly plunging back in to the pressure-cooker of parenting. It’s a day of recreational slugishness which, above all, acknowledges the link between “recreation” and “re-creation.”

Today, I do nothing so that tomorrow I can do so much more.