Yesterday, I gave in to a surprising wish: I slept in.
I do sleep in from time to time, and don't think that is a big deal, but Sunday night, after a long day involving party preparation, no grandchildren visits, a kitchen disaster linked to our Christmas pot luck event in the condo, a realization that hits me annually that my singing voice really is gone, and the temporary loss of one of my sparkly party shoes, I decided that Monday was going to be the day for sleeping in as long as I felt like.
I turned over grumpily when Dave left to take the car in for some babying, and slept more or less soundly ("more", says Dave) until 1 p.m. It felt amazing and yet other-worldly when I got up and had breakfast in preparation for a babysitting gig later in the day. It felt even more amazing when I discovered that I wasn't needed as a sitter after all, and I could go back to bed. Which is what I did.
I finished re-reading one of my favourite books, I toyed with the TV remote but found nothing absolutely perfect, I started a new book on my e-reader, I dozed a bit. I decided not to get up, search out the Windex and get rid of the set of fingerprints all over the mirror. I continued to make a series of good decisions until I fell asleep around 10 p.m.
This morning I am not even a little bit riddled with guilt, but I did wake up at 4:40 a.m.
Cuppa could do that. I sometimes wish that I could.
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