Metamorphose (v. to change the form or nature of; transform)
That’s want I want to do. Metamorphose. Not like the salesman in Kafka’s Metamorphosis that turned into a cockroach. But rather, sometimes, I wish I could just turn into my cat. I get so grumble-y at this fur-ball. No worries, no cares. He comfortably nests into the clean basket of laundry without a modicum of consciousness that he just created another 2 hours of laundry. No sense of parenting, work, cleaning, business development, dinner making, nothing, nothing. He just exists for the sake of existing. Day, night? Nothing matters. Three a.m., saunter in through the bedroom porch slider, meow for the sake of meowing, scratch at the bedroom door to get out, scratch and cry again to get in. Eat, sip on water, play with a mouse or two. Not a care. Not a worry.
I am through! I said to my husband tonight, I want the cats out. His response? “You want to get rid of this?”
Uggh, ok, I'm not that heartless, but I am tired. Instead of doing away with the fur ball, perhaps I can just metamorphose.