Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried again. Would humming help, I wondered? Hopeful, I hummed two bars of Silent Night, a Christmas favorite. Speaking of which, when Mr. Schrock, the world’s foremost authority on Christmas music, came home, I’d ask him to dig out the holiday CD featuring Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton that I’d nearly worn out last year. It was time to—shoot. Foiled again.
In one last valiant attempt, I added deep breathing. And ended up lightheaded with my head between my knees. And that’s when I noted that the carpets needed vacuuming and no one had carried out the Sunday paper. Double rats.
I now know that this thing of thinking about nothing is way harder than it looks. Kudos to the men for nailing it. How wonderful to have a spot in your brain uninhabited by kids, laundry, the latest specials at Kohl’s and the evening menu.
If practice makes perfect, I’ll hang in and keep trying. If no one coughs, dirties clothes, or comes looking for snacks, I might have a shot. Might. I said “might.”