Sunday…(or, how weekends run at breakneck speed no matter what you do)

January 27, 2013 § 6 Comments

newyorkerCurrent issues of THE NEW YORKER are starting to breed like rabbits around the house. I haven’t had time to read them all, much less in order.  HM tracked into our house some insidious little ice melters from the courtyard of the building where his office is found, and they hurt bare feet and yet break into pieces like little apsirins. I’ve been chasing them with the vaccum. Everyone in his building complained; the superintendent doesn’t know who put them down in anticipation of an ice storm, but it was discovered they’re not ice melters – they are, in fact, for breaking down grease. Someone got confused.

Meanwhile, the weatherman can’t get the weather correct, which ultimately is ok, because he’s so darn dire with forecasting sleet and slips-n-slides and rain and frozen temps, all stirred into one big weather pot so that he doesn’t actually appear to be wrong…and who cares? we have ourselves and our cars as winterized as possible with layers of hoodies and coats and fingerless gloves and scarves and scrapers, sand-in-the-trunk and big fat all-weather tires, so …bring it on.

Friends and neighbors have been quiet in the gloom this weekend, with everyone badly needing some rest and some unscheduled time.  Christmas is boxed, bagged and stacked in the tool room, everything labeled and the house has lots it glitter but there’s a certain uncluttered thing going on that’s not so bad. Greenery does perk a person up quite a bit though, even if only sticking one’s head out the back patio doors and breathing in the cold humidity and discerning among the many winter greys which branches are holding birds and the squirrels, all waiting to hit the feeder as soon as the human stops sticking her head out there, into their business.

Ya gotta love it, all the comforts of Sunday, wherever you can find them, as you teeter on the precipice of Work Tomorrow. While America is glad to have a job, sometimes the schedule just makes you want to put the typical time compendium on tilt and run it your own way.   As the dowager Countess in Downton Abbey says, “What’s a weekend?” I am intrigued by how such a character, if real, would actually measure time.

Perhaps not at all.

And that sounds like a fine idea to me.

About these ads

Tagged: , , , ,

§ 6 Responses to Sunday…(or, how weekends run at breakneck speed no matter what you do)

  • Heather says:

    Yes, wouldn’t it be nice to have a life of leisure where you don’t have to keep track of the time? This time of year tends to make people weary, including me…

    • oh says:

      It’s the lack of light that contributes to the weariness. And there’s such delight in curling up on the couch with a book! Here in the Midwest, we’re in mid-winter… what better pasttime than reading, eh?

  • Typehype says:

    Crazy weather here. Freezing and windy all last week. Last night, a little snow, but not enough to be meaningful. On Thursday it’s supposed to be 55 degrees. Kinda scary.

    Your question about the Dowager Countess made me laugh. I agree, she probably never measures time. My guess is she lives in the moment. It’s easy for her. What’s she got to worry about? Tea time?

    • oh says:

      Though we oft refer to our jobs, it’s a grand thing to have them. I’m still tickled that you work near MacKenzie Child. I would spend my lunch hours there, gazing in their windows or walking about the shop, planning what I’d do with the wood chairs whose backs are fish-shaped…such whimsey made useful…

  • shoreacres says:

    Ah! At last I’ve found a way in which I resemble a dowager (or The Dowager, perhaps). I had to call a friend not long ago to ask what day it was. It was Wednesday. I thought it was Tuesday. Unmoored as I am from so many of the things that keep people attuned to the rhythms of the week – well, it can be hard. ;)

    You’re absolutely right, though – good to have a job, even one that doesn’t run on the usual 9-5, M-F rails. At least you have Archie and the birds to keep things up to snuff around the house when you have to be gone!

  • What IS a weekend, anyway? Well, I can sure relate to breeding New Yorkers. That’s Rick’s subscription and I slip-slide on them all over the house. He takes it for awhile and then stops and then reads the old ones and when he’s done, starts again. I’m like that with Vanity Fair, often saving them for summer beachy days at the lake where a little meaty trash, generally well written, is fine, since you don’t care if you get sunscreen on it. Well, Sunday is Sunday. May this one be nice!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

What’s this?

You are currently reading Sunday…(or, how weekends run at breakneck speed no matter what you do) at This Writing Life ....

meta

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 142 other followers

%d bloggers like this: