I spent the afternoon sprawled out on the couch.
My head rested on a cool, soft stack of pillows and my body was contorted much like that of the girl on page 60 of the magazine I kept underneath my mattress when I was a teenager.
But it was comfortable.
The television seemed to find its way from one sporting event to the other.
Baseball games, UFC fighting, and even some bowling caught my interest for no other reason than it was on one of my high-definition channels.
The house was quiet.
The only noise was the roar of a crowd, the babble of anylists and color men, and the hum of the heating and cooling unit.
In other words, my wife was out of town and I was home alone for three days.
It is interesting the things one might do when left home alone.
If an itch crops up deep inside the nostril, there is rarely a hesitation to go in knuckle deep and scratch it. There's a reason our nostrils are perfectly sized for our fingers.
The same goes for itches just about everywhere else as well.
Doors don't always have to be shut when business is being conducted in the water closet, if a Cheeto hits the floor there is no one around to stigmatize me from eating it, and the milk flows much more freely when drank out of the jug.
I'm sure some of those reading this will tell their friends and neighbors something like, "Did you see the guy online who said he drank milk from the jug and ate Cheetos from off the floor?"
Then this same person will go home and lie naked on the couch not realizing the potential for contamination of the fabric.
Ultimately I seem to revert back to the days of rubbing two sticks together to get fire, and hunting rabbits with clubs when I am left home all alone.
I turn from 35 years old, to 35 million years old.
The only thing missing is a car with two solid stone wheels that I can drive around with my feet.
I guess men really are pigs.
I mean that in the truly evolutionary sense.
I watched a show about feral animals on one of those science channels a few years back and one of the species discussed was pigs. The experts on the show alleged that pigs, at least those who escape into the wild, quickly revert back to a wild mentality and some even start growing tusks like the wild boar that roam our woods.
It took me about one day to shed myself of the constraints placed on me by the society I interact with every day.
By day three I was tempted to eat my mashed potatoes with my bare hands and then dance around a fire built in the barbecue grill in the backyard. But I curbed the temptation.
I ate with a fork and only danced around the house when a good song played on the radio.
Even with no one looking my dance moves were lacking. They looked more like the The Terror Squad featuring Fat Joe doing the "Lean Back" than Usher doing his advanced choreography.
I did the dishes Monday night and listened to a Charleston-area radio station that played 1980s music.
As I was dancing through the house singing "The Safety Dance" just loud enough to entertain myself, but just quiet enough to keep the neighbors from hearing, I had just gone from doing the Running Man, to the Mashed Potato and right into the Cabbage Patch when my wife came home earlier than expected.
It couldn't have come at a better time.
When guys my size start doing the Cabbage Patch and the Running Man something is going to get broken. Maybe even me.
Thankfully she returned before someone or something was hurt.
I was probably just days from putting a pigs head on a stake in the front yard and declaring my street home to Lord of the Flies.
Instead, days later, I found myself washing and folding towels and helping cook dinner.
My feral tendencies had fled. No more Piggy.
I'm already saving up for another trip next month.
