I didn’t go to the gym this morning, which was the original plan. Or this afternoon during my son’s nap, which was plan #2. I also didn’t clean the natural-disaster site that is currently doubling as my bedroom. Or neatly fold and store the boatload of clothes my son outgrew into those oversize Ziploc bags. Or work on my business plan. Or do any number of the things that need doing in my apartment and my life.
Instead, I leisurely played with my son in the morning. We watched Sesame Street, ate breakfast, laughed a lot about random things and hung out with Daddy. And when he went down for a nap, I read a book. A real book! Not What to Expect: The Second Year, The Happiest Toddler on the Block or any of the 3,000 kiddie books that I can actually recite by heart. No, this was a book about vampires that I’d bought months ago, lugged with me on my carry-on to Ireland and never cracked, a book I would’ve devoured in less than 24 hours in my previous life. With all due respect to Charlaine Harris and Sookie Stackhouse, a completely mindless book.
Naptime lasted for a blissful three hours, and at one point when I took a break from reading, I put my head on my husband’s shoulder while he was playing Candy Crush (sorry, honey, totally outing you there)…and fell asleep for a bit.
I honestly can’t remember the last time I had a lazy day like this, with time completely to myself. Yes, I have girls’ nights out here and there, and I splurge on the occasional pedicure. But, frankly, getting ready for a night out—with the straightening of the hair and the putting on of the makeup—is exhausting. And the pedicures? Well, by the time I usually get around to getting one these days, trust me when I say that it has to happen.
But a day of doing absolutely nothing? Just to recharge and just because? And after I, miraculously, had a full, uninterrupted night of sleep in my own bed—not upright on the couch with an upset child? Some weeks, that’s an occurrence rarer than Manhattanhenge or Haley’s Comet or a celebrity magazine not fretting over the current state of Jennifer Aniston’s uterus.
I don’t even feel guilty about it, which may be the biggest miracle of all. The work can wait. The cleaning can wait. The gym will still be there tomorrow, as well as my fat behind, which, well, I really don’t care about today. Tomorrow may be a different story, but right now, all I can think is: I really have to figure out a way to do this more often!