I’ve noticed a pattern.
My first day off, I completely and totally waste it. I do manage to pull on regular people clothes long enough to walk the dog, but after that it’s back into lounge wear and slippers, shuffling around with either hot tea or cold Pepsi, scouring the web or fiddling with programs, feeling worse and worse as the day goes on.
(I realize this sounds idiotic. Other people with grown-up lives have lots of responsibilities and rarely have the luxury of having just themselves to entertain. Hush now.)
I stepped away from the computer around two-thirty, grabbed the book I’m reading, and lay down in the spare room. I never did get the promised sun in the weatherman’s ‘sun and clouds’ prediction, so had to make do with the refracted grey light while I snuggled under a sherpa-lined blanket. I read for about an hour, letting the words relax me, pull me down into a comfortable, contemplative state.
I’m back on the computer now, staring down the barrel of dinner and listening to the Chicago soundtrack, specifically Queen Latifah belt out When You’re Good To Mama.
I had so many things on my poor, abused To-Do list. I have six pages of hand-written notes that I need to enter, and my words for today. Barely managed to tidy the office. I need shelves. I need shelves like I need air. I’ve become adept at transforming my clutter into a slightly more usable version of clutter, but clutter it remains. Space is always the answer that I can’t give. My bookmarks on Safari are tidied, ensuring my continued commitment to the web browser. Posted the info for Ad Astra on the SHS. Chatted up a friend online. Oh, and laundry.
I suspect that tomorrow is going to be more productive.
And I also suspect that I’m still going to at the very least get my words in today, if not the whole type-in.