There is something about 5:30 p.m. on a Sunday that makes me want to cram so many things into what's left of the weekend. Suddenly, I want to clean, to organize, to scrapbook. Anything to make me think that I did have a productive weekend after all.
As it is, my weekends are broken down into slow, leisurely hours that have me lounging in house clothes. There is nothing about my Saturdays and Sundays that says "rush." Instead I have cultivated the art of idling: of two-day movie marathons, of doing everything and nothing.
On weekends, I am so many things. I am, among others, a storyteller, a magician, a pupil, a doctor, a playmate, a singer. I am a fan, an audience, an awestruck mom to a three-year-old who sees wonder in all things. Yes, even in a dead lizard.
Alas, weekends, too, have to end. Tomorrow, it will be back to my other world, where is no time to dawdle, where there are deadlines and dress codes. It is a world that I also love, although not with as much passion as my weekend world. And at 5:30 p.m., on a Sunday, I am slowly psyching myself for the transition.