I had great plans for this day.
I didn’t sleep well last night, so I thought I’d get up at dawn, go for an early morning ride and wait for the sun to come up. Then I’d come back home, tackle my chores, and maybe have a well-earned nap at mid-afternoon.
Instead, all I managed to do was lounge around for far too long, hobble over to the drug store and the supermarket for a few necessities, and sit outside on the plaza for a few minutes, breathing fresh air instead of Ella’s and my recirculating breaths. I should feel guilty about this, my lack of motivation, but guilt is wasted on me. Guilt isn’t a powerful enough motivator for me to change my behaviour. Plus, sometimes the bed is too warm and cozy, your pajamas are too comfy, and you’re too deeply engrossed in whatever book you’re reading to move a muscle. I get it. I do.
There’s no real point to this point except to say this was one of the laziest Sundays in recent memory, I stayed in my pajamas until 2:00, and I am little more than a languid, Cecily-shaped lump today. And I am perfectly OK with this turn of events.