The Procrastinating Couch Potato

He awoke drenched. It was a hot afternoon and the couch was damp with his own sweat. The electric fan was useless. Still groggy and half-naked, he began to recount his bearings- what day was it anyway? He made a quick glance at the calendar on the wall and learned it was a Tuesday. Just another Tuesday.

He had taken a nap on the same couch yesterday, and the day before that, and on Saturday too. Fact is, he had been napping for as long as he could remember; and the couch was beginning to smell funky. As with most couch potatoes, he was oblivious to the scent.

He turned on the TV and quickly leafed through the channels looking for something worthwhile to watch. He stopped at the Fashion Channel, like he did yesterday, and the day before that. He watched as one slender model after another pranced on the walkway, his eyes fixated on their breasts jiggling with each gallop. This semi-erotic ritual of his wasn't limited to the afternoons. He watched these exact same models gallop well beyond midnight.

God, these ladies are gorgeous. He thought.

Swallowing his saliva, he turned off the TV and slowly went back to a supine position on the couch. He cuddled to one of the couch pillows and made mental notes of the stuff he was supposed to do today:

Pay bills.
Run errands.
Do groceries.
Spend the rest of afternoon at the driving range.

He had always thought himself classy, and, in his mind, being a golfer drove that point home. Everyone else was playing basketball, soccer, tennis. Not him. He played golf. If he had to fill out a form that asked for his sports or hobbies, he was proud to write "GOLF" in there every time. He felt elite doing so, the same way horse back-riders felt when writing "equestrianism" on the same form. He was convinced he was part of the social elite - the rich - since golf is not a typical sport enjoyed by common peons. Furthermore, being associated with the latter is essentially social suicide.

He wondered if any other "elite" people had been at the driving range today.

If only Benjamin did a bit of golfing we'd be the classiest father-son duo at the driving range.
(Benjamin hated golfing.)

His mind continued to wander off onto something else. He began thinking about how much money he had spent on those damn near-worthless lampshades. For a second he considered adding "return lampshades and make cashier wish he/she wasn't a cashier" to his itinerary- on a whim- but ultimately decided against it. He then thought of other stuff: one had to do with getting rid of rats in the house, another with getting a haircut. He continued to think all that he could within his capabilities as a sweat-soaked half-naked man in boxers in a hot afternoon. Then his eyes started to cave in.

And so he spent the rest of his afternoon sleeping on the couch; same as yesterday, and the day before, and Saturday too.