Sometimes it’s the simple things in life. I actually drive this mantra home way more often than I should. I might not post the straightforward, mind-numbing quotes on social media, but I certainly apply them in my mind. Guilty as charged.
I love Sunday mornings. It’s when the rest of my family goes to church. I hear the rustling in the hallway—lights flashing, water running, belts buckling—none of which I can sleep through, but I still enjoy it each and every Sunday.
I tell myself that I’ll get to bed early on Saturday nights so that I can actually wake when the rest of my family does. Maybe take the dog for a walk. Put a dent in a book—currently it’s Stendhal’s The Red and The Black that’s still 200 pages or so from being conquered. Lo, I could even use the exercise equipment down in the cellar that continues to collect dust as I neglect my physique.
It never happens. I could pretend it’s because I’m out and about on Saturday nights, but in reality that’s probably only the case about a third of the time. I prefer to lose my mind on Mondays. I find it ironic to know that I’m one of the chosen few in the world that chooses to tackle Tuesdays at a disadvantage. Sometimes I have plans on Saturday night, sometimes I don’t, the likelihood is similar to most other nights.
Last night I crushed a few strong cups of coffee at 9. Watched Game 6 of the Western Conference Finals. I don’t even like basketball that much. Couldn’t fall asleep afterwards. Told myself I’d read Stendhal. Watched The Intern instead. I like Anne Hathaway. I don’t care about that story where she sent the eggs back a bunch of times because they weren’t cooked right. Just make the eggs right for Anne Hathaway, for Christ sakes. She’s a saint in my book. It was a good movie. Still couldn’t sleep. Before I know it it’s 3:30 and I’m reading about banking reform in Iceland. That’s a standard Saturday night for yours truly.
So alas it’s 7:30 in my noisy household and I’m tired as shit but it’s all ultimately okay because I know the drill. Around 8:30 the dog gets sent into my room. He hops up on the bed. The cat’ll often join—they get along really well for a cat and dog tandem. I’d like to think they just sort of get the other’s agenda in life and even emulate aspects of each other’s game plan that look enjoyable.
So they pile on in and we all snooze until about 10. Then I shower and play with the dog outside in the backyard for 45 minutes. I throw tennis balls and sticks and he retrieves them and goes at the sticks like a woodchuck. Eventually I lure him in with the promise of a few Cheez its. He’s allergic to everything under the sun except like fucking carrots and celery so I try to sneak him bits of human snacks here and there. If I’m contributing to his demise, which I doubt, at least he went down with a smile.
I think I cherish these mornings because they won’t last forever. I’ll move out soon. Going off the plan I had once mapped out, I would’ve done so already.
In a future life, I’ll probably accomplish things on Sunday mornings. Make some headway on a book, work out, go grocery shopping for a significant other, attend a church service. But there’s something comforting in the fact that in the present I don’t have to do so. There’s something about it that I don’t want to relinquish. There’s something about it that prompts me to drink coffee at 9:00 p.m. on a Saturday night. It’s not like I don’t know that I won’t be able to sleep after I do so, don’t know that I’ll be too tired to do anything at a reasonable hour, that my day won’t really start until after I’ve played with my dog after some people have already lived half a day.
The motives we have for why we do things are funny indeed. Batshit crazy if you really analyze them. I could probably set the stage for my Sunday mornings in a better way, catch a sunrise (often I think about how we live on this Earth and yet don’t take the time to appreciate each and every glorious sunrise that welcomes us each day), but then it wouldn’t be Sunday morning now would it?
So for now my family will make noise when I’m on my fourth hour of sleep, the animals will pile into my room while they sing hymns, and I’ll throw balls and sticks in the backyard like I’ve done for two decades with friends and dogs long since gone, metaphorically or otherwise, and now with Baxter in the present.
This is Sunday morning. Nothing gets accomplished.