guest starring me

When I woke up this morning at quarter past six and staggered out into the living room, Rachel was already dressed and had folded her blankets and piled them neatly on the futon. I, on the other hand, couldn't yet see or speak clearly. I went to the kitchen for a drink, looking in askance at the folded bed linens.

"I guess that's what you do when you're a guest," I said in an attempt to comfort myself. Guests get up, get dressed, make their beds. They only have so many outfits from which to chose.

Walking back into the living room, I leaned on the door frame. "I should guest star in my own life," I said. Rachel laughed.

But no, I'm serious. Think of it, guest stars show up and behave themselves--they smile, make people laugh. After all, they were invited to the show just to glow and sparkle. They don't get all worked up about unimportant details, or about the overall direction of the show. They have a job to do and do it. It's the "one day at a time" rhetoric played out over and over. When I'm on vacation I get up and make my bed (well, sometimes), I go jogging, I read good books, I plan in long chats over coffee, I'm generally pleasant to be around. In other words, I guest star in my own life when I'm on vacation.

So I'm going to try it. Guest starring me: at the press, in my little Crestwood apartment, on the Bronxville track, in the Tuckahoe Starbucks, passing through Grand Central. I'll do my bills as guest star, clean the bathroom guest-star style, bestow guest star smiles, blink with guest star bewilderment when things go awry.

I'm still not sure that it will motivate me to make my bed. But, heck, some guest stars don't make their beds--I'll be that kind of guest star.