There’s an odd sort of thing that comes up about mid-afternoon on Sundays. Not all Sundays, but it creeps in on occasion. It’s called regret.
It’s that time when you can’t ignore that the weekend is just about over and you look back on how you spent it.
Were you industrious, or did you squander the time in empty pursuits? Did you make a dent in that list of ‘Things I have to do’ or is the most you have to show for it is a new high score in Angry Birds? (Or, in my case, Black Ops)
One of the things I am learning to treasure about my new, and special, wife is how things seem to shed their vestige of drudgery, effort, obligation, or what ever words you want to attach to the things you don’t want to do.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like magic where, suddenly, I go skipping merrily along as cute woodland creatures prance in and help me fold clothes, wash dishes, etc. (Or, in my case, cybernetic death-robots with billion gigawatt plasma rays that could blast a hole in the universe).
Yet on the other hand, it’s not the soul grinding work I’d psyched myself into believing it would be.
The upshot of all of this is that when the dusky tendrils of Sunday crept it’s way into my awareness regret wasn’t to be found. Instead there was a satisfying weariness and good memories, such as…
Friday, Karen had her very first Tommies chili burger. There was a time when these things required you to wear protective gloves just to hold. They were used to degrease engines and cast out demons. But it seems they’ve toned down the ingredients because not only did we both survive intact, but neither of us died of gas.
We tried a new place for breakfast. Personally, I sometimes have issues with ‘new’. I like ‘familiar’. That’s what you call things, places, and people that you’ve come to enjoy, and there’s few surprises with them. Everything about ‘new’ is a surprise, which is fine… if you like that kind of thing. But, this place was nothing but good surprises. Amazing French Toast, good atmosphere, free wifi, and the guy that makes the coffee is an artist.
Sitting around a fire at the end of the evening is something we really enjoy, but we’d been out of firewood for a long time and decided we’d buy some from one of those places where the firewood is stacked so high I can’t help but feel I need to climb to the top and play king of the hill. (Or, in my case make a wooden fort and play cowboys and indians)
Talking to the guy at the firewood place we learned about all kinds of woods, how they burn, how they smell, what they weight different. Yeah, this guy liked his firewood, you could tell.
We also breathed life into a, long dormant, tradition of mine. I like Christmas, a lot. For several years when Christmas came around I’d get a Dept. 56 Dickens house or building. That kind of went by the wayside during a long unhappy period of my life, but I’m slowly putting that behind me and this weekend marked another step when Karen and I got a new Dickens village shop.
It’s been a good weekend. I didn’t get everything done I wanted, but a lot was done. I miss this past weekend, but not because I felt it was time squandered, but because of how we lived it so fully.