Today I gave myself a day of doing nothing. What happens on a day of doing nothing is that you give your mind permission to wander and then spend the day fending off random thoughts about things you never normally let come near your grey matter.
I found myself in the bathtub, coffee, breakfast and book at my side, but with no glasses, so I spent the soak time wondering if I could write a post about how I had lemon poppyseed cookies for breakfast, and what that might say about how I had made a deal with God that I could take a long bath on Sunday mornings if I didn't really enjoy it.
That led me to realize, as I was not enjoying that hot water and citrussy-smelling bath foam, that in my zeal to multitask, I had actually cleaned and rolled up the bathmat before I got out of the water. How to multitask your way to a broken neck, Lorna.
More doing nothing, including choosing a DVD to watch, really getting into it and then having to yank it out of the machine because the sound was entirely gone, replaced by a noise like chickens running over tinfoil. I had to scramble to find something to do nothing about but I like to think I was successful, even though I dozed a bit.
Doing nothing was, predictably, satisfying until it tipped the scales to boring. That's when dark chocolate with orange bits, wine and my e-reader came into play, and I spent the rest of the afternoon convincing myself that as little could be accomplished by that as I had intended in the first place.
Success left me flushed. Or maybe that was the wine.