January thaw over, we’re back in an Arctic weather pattern here in New England. Sub-zero and single digits are the norm, bringing lots of crying and counting of days until spring on social medial platforms.
I try not to complain about the weather because there’s nothing I can do about it.
Back when I began preparing for the Apocalypse, I bought an L.L. Bean mummy-style sleeping bag. I slept in it last night; it’s so warm and toasty, like being inside a power plant. It’s hard to get up and while I can take small mincing steps around the house or hop around like I’m in a sack race, I can’t stay in this sleeping bag all day, can I?
Curious about “mummies” and “mummification,” I surfed the web this morning. Mummy sleeping bags resemble mummified bodies, but the resemblance stops there. The sleeping bag preserves life; the historical sleeping bag embalmed, embraced, and wrapped death. Some ancient cultures stored mummies in pyramids, sarcophagi, and tombs.
I store my mummy in a bag under my bed.
I wonder if some marketing expert shouted “Hey, let’s call it a sleeping womb” at a brainstorming session. The mental image of a cherubic sleeping baby is so much more pleasant than a dried out old mummy.
What’s in a name, right?
Come back next Friday. I’m going tell a story about an old part-time job, working at a bridal shop I’ll call “The White Sarcophagus.”
“That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
Romeo and Juliet, indeed.