The miracle of the Easter bunny, and other trite matters

Lindt Easter bunny

Boy, am I lucky. Not only did recent dinner company bring us delicious Lindt Easter bunnies–I devoured that silky smooth milk chocolate-hazelnut awesomeness all too quickly–but some bunny appeared at our door unexpectedly on Sunday morning.

Do you remember Bob the Bunny? The mysterious beast who left Easter treats at our doorstep a few years back, never revealing his true identity despite several pleas for him to come forward? I’ve given up on identifying Bob, although if you’re still out there, Bob, it’s not too late to tell me who you are so I can thank you properly.

Rogers chocolates, three Victoria creams in spring coloursThis year, Bob’s wife Barb showed up (I’m hoping Bob isn’t under the weather), and stealthily snuck some Easter treats inside our storm door so surreptitiously that even Jelly did not alert us to the delivery. (It should be noted that Jelly normally alerts us to the presence of anyone within 50 metres of our front door.) Before we could utter “What a funny bunny, honey!” Barb had hopped back across the street.

I imagine Bunny Barbie was scurrying off to her family Easter feast. What does a bunny’s Easter dinner include? There’s a starter of carrot soup, followed by carrot soufflé, roasted carrots with carrot-top pesto (or perhaps carrot tzimmes if the bunnies are Jewish), and, finally, carrot cake for dessert. Everything a bunny’s heart desires.

I must say that I’m relieved that my Easter treats were brought to me rather than my having to search for them myself. I would not have been up to a no-holds-barred Easter egg hunt myself, although to be fair they hold few such hunts for people my age. I was busy sleeping on the couch for much of the weekend, napping not just on Saturday afternoon but on Sunday as well. In fact, I spent a record number of hours laying on the couch on Sunday. Thank goodness I didn’t have Easter dinner to attend; I’d have fallen asleep on my festive meal. I’d never have been able to participate in an egg hunt.

My sleepiness got me thinking. I realized that I push through my busy-for-me weeks, doing all those regular things on my schedule, like volunteering and yoga and grocery shopping and dog walking, in addition to the odd random errand. (I realize the rest of you are doing all these things on top of your day jobs, but cut me some leukemia slack, would you?) After all my days of pushing and yawning and dragging myself through the week, the weekend arrives and there’s no gas left in my tank.

I’d like to renegotiate my leukemia–and, while we’re at it, my polycythemia and my wonky liver–with the powers that be since they’re getting in the way of my life. Give me five healthy, productive days during the week, and I’ll wholly embrace my cancer every weekend. I can accept two days per week of lassitude, but seven is becoming a bit cumbersome. I know, I know, I should be so grateful I’m alive that quality of life doesn’t matter. Oh me of little gratitude.

I’ll do anything to express my thanks, except relinquish my not-remotely-Jewish but genuinely tasty Easter treats. I’ll somehow find the energy to snarf those down any day of the week.

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