I did a lot of laying down yesterday afternoon.
I blame it on Saturday night.
Saturday night, a flurry of margaritas with an after-party beer chaser, was a well-deserved respite from the work week.
Following this night of bus-riding, Barrio-going, downtown-wandering, partying-at-Jen-and-Vin’s silliness, I have no regrets, no remaining currency, and no mystery bruises.
A good time, as the kids are saying, was had by all.
But Sunday comes after Saturday, doesn’t it? Slow-moving, vacant-eyed Sunday.
“Why not just relax?” Mary asked.
I sighed into the phone. “I feel guilty. Two lousy days off a week and I’m going to spend one of them being useless and queasy.”
It’s true. One can only spend so much time on the couch before the disgust sets in.
For cryin’ out loud, Pearl, you play, you pay. Get up and do something.
And so I arose, Lazarus-like, in search of some means of making myself useful.
But what does one do when one’s been dead for most of the day? I stared at the broom. Momentarily contemplated the vacuum. Gave the tub a glance.
None of these things spoke to me.
And that’s when my childhood training kicked in.
I was raised, as many of us Midwestern types are, with the idea that idle hands are the devil’s workshop. My mother, particularly, could make dinner, dip candles, churn butter and help deliver a calf – all while “relaxing”. My father has never worked less than two jobs at a time in his life.
We’re not “relaxing” people.
So I did what I’ve been raised to do.
Would you believe that I polished the leaves of my house plants?
You would? See, that’s why you and I get along.
Granted, it’s not the biggest job in the house – not like scrubbing the toilets or listening to Willie talk about Star Wars; but a couple of cotton balls, a little mineral oil, and I do believe the plants thank me.
And I can no longer be considered useless.
Thanks goodness it’s Monday, huh?
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