Time isn’t free. It doesn’t just sit there for free at the all-you-can eat buffet. You have to earn it–or steal it.
It’s Sunday. Traditionally known as a day of leisure. Some societies or cultures or religions have days when you’re not supposed to “work.” Maybe I need to join.
It’s not just “work” either. Work, as defined by someone that might have been Mark Twain or maybe it was Huckleberry Finn, is something that you’d rather not be doing because you’d rather be doing something else. I chose to stay home. Going meant continuing with the conveyor belt of activities that never stops. It’s the 24/7 factory except we do all of the shifts. I was going to boycott! Go on strike! Not go with everyone today!
So do I get fired? I don’t know. I don’t think so. No one really put up a big argument. I just had a procedure done last week and I’m supposed to take it easy anyway, so that was my reasoning. It worked!
Just to see if it was really working, as everyone left I read my book for half an hour. Imagine, just reading in the morning on a Sunday. Just reading my book.
I apologize, dear reader, if this sounds preposterous, but I have two young boys, two jobs, and it seems like two (or three) lives. Reading a book on a Sunday morning (that’s not a manual for how to fix the water pump … because that’s what I was reading Saturday evening) is a luxury of forgotten times.
I think even the dog was confused. “Wait, so you’re here and you’re just going to sit there and look at that thing in your hands? Well, if that’s that case, I’m going to take a nap. And snore.” Me too.