My butt is going to take on the shape of this chair, I told George a few minutes ago.
He laughed, but couldn’t criticize, because his butt’s in danger of the same fate.
We promised ourselves after Mass today that we’d do exactly what we’re doing this afternoon: nothing at all. No laundry, no cooking, no shopping, no catching up on what we didn’t manage to finish yesterday. It’s Sunday, it’s our Sabbath, and we take that no-work-
on-the-Sabbath rule seriously.
Not just because it’s a rule, of course, but because it’s one of God’s gifts it makes sense not to refuse. It’s the day to pay Him a little extra attention and to re-create ourselves. So, it’s Mass in the morning, then out to lunch, a different place each Sunday, and a dog walk. In the summer, we’d probably take a drive, or ramble through the state park, or grab our cameras and go shooting. Today it’s 16°, gray and damp, and not very enticing.
Instead, we did inside stuff. Music is playing, George was napping a while ago. Before that he restrung a guitar, and I wrote letters to three of the diocese’s seminarians–a personal project that goes throughout the year. I read a couple of the newspapers I subscribe to, and prayed a Rosary. I’ve eyed my crocheting, sitting in a bag near my chair, but I think I’ll save that for later, while we’re watching a movie or an old television show. No TV now, though. It’s sort of an unwritten rule in our house that we don’t turn the boob tube on during the day, any day.
Sunday is a good time to reflect on things marvelous and mundane–on the week ahead
with its appointments and schedules; the upcoming meeting with a city alderman about a thorny issue and his disappointing vote; about the fluffy little birds in my feeder and how quickly they’re devouring seed on this frigid day; about the joy of sharing the silence with someone I love; about my sister’s health issues and the new challenges in her life; about the fact that it’s the International Day of Prayer and Awareness Against Human Trafficking. (!)
We’ll rouse ourselves eventually, and meander to the kitchen for a little snack, which would be called supper on any other day, but which “lunch out” necessarily reduces to something much less. Besides, it’s ice cream night, and we both want to save room.
We deprive ourselves of ice cream the rest of the week, for health reasons, mostly. But we’re big believers in moderation, and neither of us believes anything should be left totally out of our diets. I promise, that ice cream tastes even better for being savored only one night a week.
Maybe this all sounds terribly boring. To us, it’s relaxing, because even though we’re retired, we have busy schedules. I’m a freelance writer, George is a freelance musician, and we both volunteer here and there. This is the day to indulge ourselves with the lack of activity that might be considered slothful on any other day of the week.
Then, tomorrow, we’ll work on getting these butts back to their normal shape.