Welsh: Help! I’m stuck behind a wall of junk.

Welsh: Help! I’m stuck behind a wall of junk.

January finds 43 years of accumulated stuff standing between writer and freedom

January is the time of year when people typically get rid of the old to make way for the new, and man do I need to do that.

I’m writing this column from somewhere in my garage, where I’m trapped behind a wall of accumulated junk that appears to be several feet deep. I found my way in here on New Year’s Day as I was searching for the recycling bin and now I can’t find my way out.

Seriously. Send help!

Among the things I can see from my cramped location is a Bowflex machine that I bought in January of 2012, A ThighMaster that arrived in January of 2013 and an Ab Roller from three years back.

Even though I admit to having jiggly thighs, the ThighMaster is not mine. I swear!

Looking at the Bowflex has me re-thinking the Peloton exercise bike that I ordered online shortly before getting into this predicament. It arrives Tuesday and someone else will have to sign for it.

I’ve been yelling for help, but no response from my family. I’m thinking the wall of junk must be thick enough to be sound-proof, and past experience tells me it will be several days before anyone notices I’m gone.

Fortunately, I do have access to our deep freeze and the contents within, if I carefully manoeuvre a bag of never-used golf clubs out of the way. Using the nine-iron, I can pry the deep freeze lid open just enough to reach in and grab a pizza pocket. They take about 40 minutes to thaw sufficiently enough to eat and they’re absolutely horrid served cold, but beggars can’t be choosers.

I can see an old microwave just out of arm’s reach at the top of the wall, but I’m pretty sure it stopped working in 1996.

Thankfully, boredom isn’t an issue thanks to 37 boxes of books. I just finished thumbing through the Dr. Atkins’ Quick and Easy New Diet Cookbook, and now I desperately want to eat three pounds of bacon.

That may just be coincidence though as I always want to eat several pounds of bacon.

I read Eat Pray Love yesterday, and I’m not ashamed to say I cried. Elizabeth Gilbert chose happiness over suffering and I applaud her for it.

Next up, I’m diving into a copy of Rich Dad Poor Dad. I can only relate to half of that title, but if I ever get out of here I’m going to clean up my finances. Reminder to self. Start by buying updated copy of Rich Dad Poor Dad.

I also found a squash ball in here. No idea why, but I’ve tried to pass time throwing it against a wall. Unfortunately, it’s a small space and my reflexes aren’t what they used to be, so the ball has smacked into my face and crotch several times.

You may be asking, why don’t you text or call for help.

Yes, that would be an excellent idea. I did bring my cellphone with me but the battery was down to five per cent. In hindsight, playing Candy Crush for 20 minutes after I discovered I was stuck was probably the wrong thing to do.

No, I think the only thing I can do now is devise an elaborate escape using the tools at hand.

I think I can build a makeshift ladder. I have a cello that I bought to impress a girl when I was 18 years old. Turns out no girl ever is impressed by a guy who plays the cello. It can’t have just been me, right? Right?!

I also have a guitar from the same era, which would have been far better suited to wooing the ladies had I learned to play something more advanced that Hot Cross Buns.

If I can use those instruments along with three George Foreman Grills and a Darth Vader novelty toaster, I might be able to reach the top of the wall and find a way to throw myself over the top. I’m going to attempt to tie together 30 or so used painting rags, knot a garden trowel to the end and MacGyver my way out of this with an improvised grappling hook.

And if I do get out of here, I make this promise to you and myself. I resolve to change my ways and purge all of the junk that created this life-threatening scenario.

Except this box of random electrical cords. Because hey, you never know when you’ll need one.

Eric Welsh writes for the Chilliwack Progress.