IN A MAN'S NOTHING BOX

“Bu-zi-zi-zi-zi-zit, bu-zi-zi-zi-zi-zit!” says the presenter standing behind a figurine of a female brain.  He’s making electric arcs with his fingers describing how a woman’s brain thinks,  “Connecting this wire to that wire and that wire to this.”

While standing behind a second figurine, he discusses the male brain.  “A man runs to his nothing box.  This is how they unwind.” 

Lying here, it’s 3 a.m., I can’t sleep.  My wires are connected to this, arcing to that, all scrambled static, when I remember men have a nothing box.  Hum mm.   Nothing box.  I could use a nothing box.

With the dark of night, the warmth of my teal covers, and eyes closed, I conjure a nothing box.  There it is.  Laying on its side.  Brown cardboard.  Four walls and a bottom.  Flaps open.  Something’s uncommon about the bottom.

Oh, I see.  It was once cut out and is now taped back together.  Through the clear cellophane I can see sunlight and glimmers of green grass.  Ha, ha, ha, this box is in the grass!

Ah.  There.  I’m all alone.  In a man’s nothing box.  My nothing box.

Huh?  To the left something tiny and black moves.  An ant?  An ant in my nothing box!  But it scurries away.  Through a microscopic hole in the tape, he disappears.

Looking around, again thinking I’m alone.   It’s obvious, though, I’m still not alone.  The upper right corner hangs a wee spider busily making its capturing web.  Can’t have that.  Nope.  Spider must go.

Taking the top end of his filigree web I buoy him over the edge into the grass.

There.  Nothing box.  No thoughts.  No worries.  No plans.  No goals.  Nothing.

“Let’s take the flaps and fold them inside,” I think.  Fold, crunch, push, shove, boing!  That didn’t work -- they popped right back out.

“POW!”  “Punch!”  a small hand bursts through the bottom and young eyes play peek a boo.  Chuckle.   Yet “No!  Go away.  I don’t want to play!”  I must do no-thing.

The box flattens.  Without a bottom, it collapses, and falls flat.  

Ut.  Then it’s not a box.  Must have a box.  Open back up.

It could have tissue paper to crumple and climb, couldn’t it?

It could have bubble wrap to stomp and pop, couldn’t it?

What about dividing inserts?

Oh, bother.

Get those out of here.  This is a nothing box.

From the bottom I look up the sides and up each corner seam, noting the tears and punctures in the corrugated cardboard wondering if they could be used like rock climbing.  

A gentle breeze begins to make the flaps move.  I’m feeling uplifted.  Like a child in daddy’s arms whirling around the room, I’m airborne.

With me full of wonder riding inside, there goes the nothing box.

“I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away……”

(And this is what my brain did while forcing it into a nothing box.)

(A day later, I have to tell you, as I was reading this blog out loud to dear hubby he became exasperated, "STOP!  It's a nothing box!  You're killing me!")