Under House Arrest

While some women may lust for a diamond bracelet, like the $5,000, 14K, white gold cable number pictured on the left, I have my eye on a less flashy cuff. It’s that gunmetal gray ankle monitor also pictured on this page.


Why, you may ask (and you’d be dotty and uncooperative if you didn’t), would I prefer a radio transmitter unit fastened to my foot when the diamonds would look fetching on my wrist? And, the bobble would surely elicit gasps of “Oooh, let me see!” or “How gorgeous!” or “What’s the occasion?”

Here’s my explanation: if I wore the ankle monitor, I could truthfully respond to invitations with a shrug, a finger pointing down to the band, and the line, “Sorry, not allowed to leave the house.” Of course, I’d have to come up with some reason I was under house arrest. But surely, with my imagination, and my love for tech products, I could suggest something pilfered at the Apple Store and no one would question me further.


If I told the truth to potential hosts – that I’d prefer never to leave the comfort of my own home – they might think me a recluse and classify me with some of the famous sequesters pictured on this page; i.e. Marlon Brando, Joan Crawford, Greta Garbo, Howard Hughes, and J.D. Salinger.


Of course, those celebrities had their own reasons for preferring isolation. They may've wished to escape the attention of fans (not my problem), unable to tolerate other humans (don’t take it personally), or have some psychological disorder that causes them to hide away (let's not go there).


For me, it’s quite simple. Within the walls of my casa, I possess every amusement, convenience, and food to make me happy. Why would I ever want to leave? Come; take a tour (then promise you’ll skedaddle because if I have to chat with you, I won’t be able to enjoy my toys). See, there’s my iMac desktop and PowerBook laptop. If I get bored with one, I can trot over to the other. In the wicker basket adjacent to the couch are copies of the New York Times and paperback of the day ("Talk Talk" by T.C. Boyle). The TV remote can put me in touch with my on-air news source, CNN, the entire Law & Order franchise, and premium channels. A short walk to the kitchen finds enough goodies in the fridge and pantry to keep my tummy satisfied for the rest of the year. And if we run out, there’s always Peapod to truck on over.


I’ve even eliminated the need for a health club with my treadmill and weights, plus earphones that hook to the basement TV. Okay, so my downstairs gym is absent of socialization; but it also removes the vision of all those young, toned bodies that frequent the locker room and cardio studio of my former club. Now, it’s just little ole me huffing and puffing. And when I check myself out in the full-length mirror, I look okay compared to, let's see, the wood-beam columns in the space. (Actually, now that I’m measuring, those timbers are looking pretty slim.)


No matter -- you get the picture. So the next time you’re inclined to invite me out for an evening of enlightenment, dining, or companionship, save yourself the effort. I sincerely appreciate the thought, but you see, I’ve got this thing on my ankle…