Source: Christopher Stott, © 2007
Sleeping in til noon...
Consuming coffee & books for brunch...
Speaking to no one all day...
Lounging around, doing only what I want...
Dressing only if the need arises...
Catching up on the week's podcasts & blogrolls...
Tackling a few domestic duties, if inclined...
Soaking in a late-night bubble bath til the water is cold...
Sunday is my day to be utterly, shamelessly selfish. I can retreat into hermitdom and curl up with a stack of books and periodicals if I so choose. Or enjoy a few uninterrupted hours of solo exercise, either at the gym or on the trails. I call the shots and I reap the rewards of hard-earned leisure. I am queen for a day.
One full day dedicated to personal pampering is not a trifling indulgence; it's a necessity. Much like a cell phone requires recharging, so I must unplug from the world before facing a new week of daily stress and challenges.
Selfish solitude. Sundays make me question whether I ever want to settle down again and welcome another into my peaceful realm. Perhaps I am simply too strong an Alpha female to need a co-habitant 24/7. I am more suited to a Rent-a-Mate for a 20% time share. Indeed, a Thursday-Saturday partner seems an ideal solution.
Maybe diminished solitude explains why relationships fail or why enthusiasm wanes for once-favored activities. It's the old "How can I miss you if you never go away?" mentality. I suspect it accounts for my inability to keep a job more than five years: I tire quickly of colleagues I see daily. But oh, how I miss my long-distance friends and our sporadic visits. Them I miss. Those I cherish. The familiar faces representing daily drudgery? Not even in the least...
Sunday solitude: it's my recipe for mental health.
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