Now that The Panda Show is over I have regained full use of my Sundays.
I love Sunday. It is a day spectacularly devoid of any responsibility or relation to the other days in my week. When executed without flaw I can manage to be in my pyjamas all day. I try not to make any promises or create any expectations for myself on Sundays. Sitting down to write here is sometimes a major accomplishment for me but Sunday is the only day of the week I have to myself. And, therefore, the only day I have the time to commit to it.
Which, I admit, is partially laziness on my part. Sure, I could take an hour or two after work every night. Or I could start writing in the mornings over coffee and breakfast. But really? No. Not really. In the AM my brain is pretty much in a vice-grip of stupidity until I'm actually in the elevator of my office building. After eight hours at work there's no less pleasant a thought than sitting down in front of another computer and having to use the same brain cells I've been exercising all day. I can maintain consciousness until about 11pm. After that, I guarantee nothing.
Yes, it's true. I live a simple life. A quiet life. Saturdays are generally for chores. Grocery shopping, forcing The Fiance to help me "clean up, just a little." Sometimes a movie, or lunch out. Not in this weather though. Occasionally, Saturdays are spent recooperating from Friday night, but most of The Big Events happen on Saturday nights.
Which brings us back to Sunday.
I sequester myself on the second floor. It's the bedroom, and our office, and the music studio, and a very comfortable lounge area easily fortified against the elements by strategic placement of our space heater. It's quiet up here. The forced-air heat doesn't have the same resonence as it does in the living room. There's not the constant volume monitoring on the TV or on the computer as there would be downstairs. It's oddly cosy for a space so open. Equally as important, my cell phone gets horrible reception on the second floor. Oh well.
I bring some snacks up from the kitchen and a beverage or two. After 6pm, or with whatever passes for dinner on days like this, I might have a glass of wine or two but usually it's tea or water or juice. I'll bring the paper up and spread it on the desk, piling the ad sections ontop of the ones I have no interest in - automobiles, business, classifieds and sports - and browse the rest of the paper. Beatrice will eventually come searching for attention and plant herself in my lap, or ontop of whatever I'm reading at the time. We'll watch a little TV together until she moves her fat, kitty ass onto the other chair finally freeing all of my limbs and attention. She'll sit quietly until Jabber comes up here to tell me that he's starving for food and from lack of attention. Beatrice will either run him off with a swipe of her paw or allow him to nest on the bed.
If I hadn't finished reading my book last night, I'd be making my way through that right now. Or muddling through the new novel I just brought home from the stash in my desk drawer at work. But there's a Law & Order marathon on (does it still qualify as a marathon if they show 5 hours of L&O every Sunday?) The cats and I are content enough to sit here and eat our snacks and pound out some thoughts on the ol' blog.
I've been thinking about a one act play. Today is the type of day I might work on that. Or I might spend three hours rambling here. Or perhaps I'll browse the list of wedding dress designers from the salon I am going to next month. The Hunt begins on March 11th. There are a lot of things I could, and probably should, be doing today. There are a lot of ways I could spend my Sundays. But the greatest feeling in the world is not having a single damn thing to do.