Sunday, Lazy Sunday

Today was weighed down by a heavy blanket of fatigue and laziness, laced with just the smallest bit of agitation. Lost between its folds were productivity, vibrancy and accomplishment and soon I saw the end of the day arrive with an entirely excessive promptness for which I did not appreciate. How quickly a Sunday goes by when it is filled with football games, sporadic naps and Meet Joe Black. While Anthony Hopkins’ character is pondering on how his 65 years have gone by ‘in a wink,’ I am avidly agreeing as I eye the clock to my left. The window behind me reveals a darkened sky, Christmas lights illuminating the street, and people returning from making their last minute Christmas purchases. I am still on the couch—ignoring it all. I feel like I’m in one of those time lapse videos—the clouds race across the sky, the sun rises and sets, the tall grasses dance with the wind. But there is always that one object that doesn’t move or shudder to which all other activity is measured by—a skyscraper or tree trunk, for example. That is me today. I am just a big tree trunk. Cedar. Strong in my willpower not to be moved.

I wonder if these ‘wasted days’—the ones which seem to last a total of about four hours and which find us dazed and disheveled at their end—are the days we most regret when we get to about, well, Anthony Hopkins’ age. Not that I think we are all going to be wishing we would have been more productive on our days off. We won’t be cursing ourselves for not having mowed the lawn on that one Sunday in September, or brushing back the tears for having missed out on an opportunity to work out at the gym a few years back. But will we regret not living optimally everyday? And how would you define living optimally anyway? I could argue that having the occasional lazy Sunday is a fine addition to a life lived. Needed even. An opportunity to overdose on relaxation and contentment has got to be therapeutic for any human being living in this fast-paced world of high expectations. It may even delay ‘the end’ a few years. Instead of sifting through files of memories and regrets (overlapping as they continually increase) at eighty, you are sifting through them at eighty-five. And with any luck those extra years will have trimmed down that regret file some.

I could also argue that these lackluster days can still retain some semblance of worth when spent with other lazy souls who lack motivation and zeal and whom you happen to love. They are not lazy people in general, but they are joining you in your current state of tree ‘trunkenness’. This morning Ty and I had breakfast with two close friends. We all shuffled over to White’s (a breakfast joint in Salem) around 11am. No make-up, un-showered, dehydrated, and lacking sleep would fit our description. I was half expecting the waitress to tell us that they had no room and to check the stable around the corner. It being Christmas and all. But they took us in (probably because we had a cute one year old with us) and we spent the dying hours of the morning chomping on food and drinking coffee. Lazy—yes, but wasted? No. Ty and I drove home shortly after. Well, Ty drove—I dozed in the passenger seat. The rest of the day saw us couch ridden with the aforementioned football and Mr. Black. Yes, we could have been working off breakfast at the gym or debating the possible outcome of next years election, but there is something to be said for just leaning up against someone you love for hours on end with no need to move or even talk.

I think that when I’m nearing the end of my life, I will think fondly on days like today. I am coming to this conclusion, mind you, through a fog of sedation heavily cultivated by the very activity which I am now ruling. Thus, I may be a tad shy of objective. Regardless, I do not believe this day was a waste. It was merely a pause from the normal breakneck speed that we all have come to view as normal and that we all must strive to match and surpass Monday through Friday.

It was a good day, and despite my grumblings about how fast a Sunday can evaporate, I still have a couple hours left. Just enough time to pop some popcorn, curl up with Ty and watch TV reruns. Meanwhile the weekend will slip away, escaping for another five days, its exit set to the tune of a Seinfeld laugh track.