I have, more or less, a week off work. I say "more or less" because I do work on Thursday--but a one-day work week? Even I can manage that. Usually, time off turns me into a puddle: I spend whole days on the couch (or in the backyard, if it's nice) with a cup of cold coffee in easy reach and a stack of three or more books heaped on the ground beside me.
This is lovely, but past a certain point that feeling of "Probably I should be ___________" (insert: cleaning my apartment, finishing the painting that I started three months ago, doing laundry, wrapping my step-mom's birthday present, etc.), which can ruin any number of perfectly slothful moments by drawing my attention away from the nice peaceful thing I'm doing and toward the thing I ought to be doing. As soon as that thought pops into my head I'm no longer enjoying my book--I'm arguing with myself about exactly why I should or should not be doing something Productive.
"Productive": now there is a word that ought to be booted right out of the English language. I do not produce, thank you, no matter who benefits from my actions. The very thought makes me feel, well, automated.
So, that is generally how my weekends proceed. Read, relax, guilt guilt guilt.
This week, however, has been lovely. My schedule has been full of family dinners and dates with friends and shows and prolific practice time with my guitar. I have been, in the best and most relaxing way, productive: the apartment is relatively clean, as is most of the laundry, and this morning Mitch and I had breakfast at the Little Cheerful and then spent the early afternoon climbing the rocks and splashing in the sound at the state park. We have a date this afternoon for ice cream at Mallard. I'm also making my way through six (six! Count 'em) books right now. We even went to church, two weeks in a row.
I feel sunburnt and rested. There is sand between my toes. Summer has, in full force, arrived.