Pick one up next time you throw down.
While eating peanut butter out of the jar I realized that my mind was dangerous. How long had I been standing in the kitchen? How did I not notice the terrier clawing at the back door? How long was it going to take before it came to my attention that I had completely abandoned my entire plan for the day? I didn’t remember giving the command to power off, but it happened anyway. There I stood, a drone on auto pilot – no control. The last few weeks have stretched parts of me which don’t have much elasticity. I took the spoon out of the jar and left it on the counter and let the dog back into the house.
It’s sunday. Worse – it’s Sunday afternoon. Yes, Sunday afternoons are good for so few things. Sunday afternoons are on par with midday dentist visits and having to steer your vehicle toward emissions testing. I would gladly trade a bucket of Sunday afternoons for an extra Thursday late-night or two. I can’t seem to find any creative inspiration on Sunday afternoons, or much on television. Books read much more difficult on Sunday afternoons and it seems like my likelihood of tripping going up the stairs increases ten-fold. Sunday afternoons are those people, the ones who don’t turn right on the red light, instead waiting for the green light when they could have already been two blocks further.
There are items to clean and rooms to restore, yet here I am, sitting around.