Sunday mornings can be tricky.
In North America, Sundays are meant to be a real day of rest. Putting aside the question of whether or not you choose to attend church on Sundays, it's the day when lots of places are closed or close early, and your chances for getting errant errands done are slim. Saturdays are for running around. Sundays are for relaxing.
So what's so tricky about Sunday mornings?
For a lot of us, we've been raised on Hollywood films depicting a young, yuppie couple in a fabulous apartment or townhouse, in robes and slippers, reading the New York Times over a cup of gourmet coffee and picture-perfect croissants or pastries while the stirring strains of Saint-Saens grace the expensive sound system. This idyllic scene has been constructed and passed it off as the dream of the middle class. The perfect Sunday morning.
Well, never mind that. We don't roll that way in this house. Etienne sleeps in, sometimes two or three hours after I'm forced out of bed by the cruel kitty overlords demanding their morning feeding.
This morning, it was cold and bright. I shuffled into the kitchen in that Hollywood-sexy old, thick brown robe and my picture perfect winnie-the-pooh flannel pajamas, hair a-mess, and fed the monsters. After, I popped a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, filled the kettle, and fired up the laptop. It's anyone's guess when Etienne would joint the world, so it was just me, my green tea, my toast with peanut butter and strawberry jam, and the NPR podcast Pop Culture Happy Hour. Oh, and the cats.
Simple pleasures...
...Wish you were here.
No comments:
Post a Comment