Dear God, Please Don't Let Me End Up Like Garfield

I have a bone to pick with Garfield. Not James Garfield, the twentieth president of the United States, although I’m sure I could find a reason to hate him, too.

No. I’m talking dog-loathing, lasagna-lusty, whiner-baby Garfield. The cat.

He’s a statue. Unchanging. Unsurprising. Unhappy. He is a static, stagnant pool of mosquito-infested mediocrity. There’s no character development, no emotion. No realization that sad, friendless Jon cares so deeply for him. No repentance for his shameful treatment of the pure-but-naive Odie.

Look at that smug face.

And you know what really shucks my peas?

His completely unfounded hatred of Mondays.

What’s that about? He’s a fat, lazy, free-loading feline. He doesn’t have to go to work, or school. He isn’t forced to listen to the office jabber, or make polite, meaningless small talk with his peers. He is under no obligation whatsoever to paint a smile on his face and laugh mechanically at the same joke his professor makes in class everyday. He gets to sleep, eat, and do nothing. (I did come to the realization while writing this that perhaps that’s the joke-- a cat complaining about Mondays when he has no responsibilities. But I digress.)

Most of all, though, I hate Garfield because I fear him.

I fear his life. One that revolves around never leaving the house, obsessing over subpar food (c’mon, lasagna?), making fun of others, and hating certain days of the week.

I, too, have homebody tendencies. I also crave comfort food, albeit in the form of soft pretzels and chocolate chip cookies. I’m constantly judging people in my head. And you know what else? Thursdays make me feel sleepy and slightly grumpy.

Is all that separates me from this crabby, self-obsessed creature my lack of fur?

I won’t have it. No sir. I have enacted a foolproof plot, a way to keep myself from becoming a crotchety old woman at the ripe age of 20. Here it is:

STEP ONE: FIND MAGIC

One of the greatest disappointments of my life has been not getting my Hogwarts letter. I’m sure my owl just got a little turned around, poor guy. But in the meantime, I will find the magic.

See, every single time I see a little old desk in an antique store, I have to look inside the cabinets. All of them. Because one day, I’ll pull open THE drawer.

In my head, it’s this roll-top writing desk. I grab the stained bronze knob and pull open the bot

tom drawer. It’s empty, I sigh. But wait a minute… that bottom looks odd. I feel around the edge of the drawer. There it is, a little indent for my finger.

It’s a false bottom.

Inside? A treasure map, and scratched in faded red ink that looks like blood, an X.

Magic is also the reason I started going on walks. You know how many book characters find their Wizened Old Mentor while casually walking along train tracks or wandering through little backstreets? A lot. So I walk. And I break into abandoned houses, and scuff through alleyways, and I wait. For someone, anyone to yell, “Hey kid!”

At this I’ll look up, as if I hadn’t noticed the Wizened Old Mentor watching me from the front porch of his run-down house that totally has a turret on it.

“Hey.” I’ll be very casual, even act a little cautious, maybe suspicious.

They’ll beckon to me. I’ll walk over (but not too-too close because kidnappings happen). My Mentor will size me up. He’ll nod with a grunt. I’m in. Then, he’ll lean in and whisper, “You know, there are dragons in that forest,” and jut his chin towards the woods that lie just beyond the train tracks.

Yes, Dear Old Wizened Mentor Man. I did know. I’ve always known.

STEP TWO: MAKE MAGIC

As of yet, I’m still looking for my dragon-friend and waiting on my superpowers. I won’t lie, it’s easy to get discouraged in the midst of my search. Discouragement leads to grumpiness, which leads to growing a tail and refusing to eat salads. Which is why step two is essential to avoid ending up like Garfield, friends.

You gotta make a bit of magic. There are several ways I do this.

A) Hide money from myself. It’s pretty self-explanatory. I put an Andrew Jackson under my mattress. I go to bed. I forget about said twenty dollar bill. When I finally get around to changing my sheets three years later, I find twenty dollar bill. Boom. I just got twenty dollars richer.

B) Confuse people. Look up a random address. Write a letter. It can be about anything. I like to put poems in there. Send the letter. Do not include a return address, as people can be weirdos. Someone’s day just got stranger, because they received a haiku about my roommate eating my chips.

I also like to wink at passersby, like we share a secret together. Just don’t be normal, and see what people do.

C) Make it up. That cool rock on the ground? It could be a leviathan egg. See something shiny lying in the grass? Go pick it up. At best it’s a diamond and I’m rich. At worst it’s trash and I’ve done my one good deed for the year. Funny-looking neighbor walking his funny-looking dachshund? Perhaps he’s a war hero who left his love back in ‘Nam and pines for her daily. Or maybe his dog is named Oscar Meyer (as in Oscar Meyer Weiners). Either way, I’ve made a friend.

Other options: I’ll take walks at night and look at the stars. I’ll wake up so freakin’ early and watch the sunrise. I’ll go on hikes by myself and get lost in the woods. I’ll climb on fire escapes and sit on roofs and explore buildings on my college’s campus at two am.

I’ll do anything to find some magic.

Anything to not be boring.

Anything to not become Garfield.