September 28, 2012
Eyes blinking open for those first few moments of consciousness, your mind does that whole assessment. What day is it?
It's Sunday, you think, smiling, as you drift back into a half-dreaming snooze. Several minutes later, at 9 a.m., the alarm goes off. Sunday chores.
Zombie-walking into the kitchen, you get the coffee going. Water drips into the pot, the aroma rising, as you think about the day ahead. Sinking into the sofa, you sip from your favorite mug, waiting for the hot liquid to work its magic.
Sunday is so bittersweet. It's the slow beginning to the week ahead, a chance to square everything away for a smooth transition into Monday morning.
It's a time to take an assessment of all those things you need to do. And that list you made seems to keep getting longer.
As a homeowner, there's an allegiance to your house. It's a feeling. An unspoken blood pledge like a father makes to his child that he'll take care of things. Even if that means sacrificing a sacred day of your weekend.
Going down the list, it seems that some of the items can hold off another week or two. However, the drywall around the windowsill looks like it's starting to crumble. Need to do something about that. Two different sets of floodlights are out, and the batteries seem to be dead in the motion sensors. Got to take care of that too.
You take mental notes, deciding what's most essential as you drain the last drop from your coffee mug. Out of the corner of your eye you spot something.
What's an hour or two of mindless Sunday morning television, when you've got all day to take care of chores? On a trip back into the kitchen, you refill your coffee mug. You might as well relax just a little bit. After all, it's the weekend.
You sit through an hour of back-to-back reality shows about desperate chefs subjected to torture by their sadistic hosts. Then, you find a rerun of that sitcom you used to watch. It's your favorite episode. When that's over, you catch up on the latest from an around-the-clock news network.
Next thing you know, it seems you've only blinked your eyes and it's afternoon. Standing up, stretching, you turn off the television and put your coffee mug in the sink. Slipping on old sneakers, you walk out back to the shed.
It's been a few days since you set foot in here. The scent of dead grass, lumber and oil is heavy in the air as you move about the space, taking stock.
Digging under the shelves, there's an old canister of Spackling. Two new boxes of floodlights sitting on the workbench, ready to go. You grab the ladder and walk it outside. Propping it up, you ascend the steps, unscrewing old floodlight bulbs. Your mind wanders.
Wasn't there something today? You descend the ladder, take a new bulb out of the box and head back up with it.
As the floodlight screws into place and blinks to life, you have an epiphany. The Falcons! That's right, it's football season. What time does the game start? You dash into the house and turn on the TV.
Time melts away while the Dirty Birds trounce Kansas City. Such mind-numbing bliss as you forget the world around you and sit, perched on the edge of your seat. The final seconds of the fourth quarter tick away, and you flip the channel to a sitcom. It's not until some time later that you go the kitchen for a snack and glance at the clock.
Yikes. The sun is on the verge of setting as you sprint out the door. You grab another box of floodlights and yank the aluminum ladder to the ground with a metallic clatter.
Propping the ladder back up on the other side of the house, a neighbor peers through the shrubs, uncertain what's happening. He ventures over. After he's assured himself that someone's not robbing you in the dead of night, he leaves, shaking his head.
Collapsing the ladder, you heft it up and haul it back toward the shed, juggling the boxes of floodlights with dead bulbs. Putting away the ladder and locking up the shed, you head back inside the house.
Settling back onto the sofa, you look at the list. One thing down, and one to go, you think. It doesn't necessarily need to be daylight to repair the drywall around the windowsill. You realize that the Spackling is still out in the shed and give a heavy sigh. Bracing to stand up, however, you spot something out the corner of your eye.
The windowsill can wait a few minutes, you decide, sinking back into the sofa. After all, it's still the weekend.