Weekends fly by.
I find myself on Sunday night running a recap in my head, trying to find where Saturday went. I wonder what I could have done to make it last longer, wonder what can be done to make the next weekend better.
All this wondering, is there really a need for it? I should enjoy my weekends as they are, as they come, as they are planned. They are all memorable; every day should be.
I find that I spend my weeks waiting for Friday afternoon, my weekends rolling my eyes at Sunday evening.
I'm thankful for my job.
I'm thankful for what it allows me, affords me.
I shouldn't dread any day, be it Monday or Sunday night.
Everyday is a gift and I realize this morning that I can either unwrap them, enjoying the sound of the paper, the smell of the Scotch tape, the feel of the wrapping, the box, the bubble wrap. Or
I can roll my eyes at it, toss it in the corner and watch the minutes click by to hours until the work day is through and I'm off to build my own empire.
When it's put that way, it's kind of hard to choose the latter.
I wonder once more and go in search of those tossed packages but sadly, they aren't there. The corner is clear except for one.
It's marked "Monday".
It's for today, tossed there this morning when I woke with a grunt and a groan.
Think I'll rescue it from the dust bunnies. Dust bunnies created by the other gifts left there, decomposed at day's end.
I'm opening this one slowly, the same way I open Christmas gifts, the infuriating slip of finger under tape and folding of paper (never tearing!) that drives my friends and family to cursing!
It is my day, after all. I should open it as I wish.
Yep, there it is.
The smell of Scotch tape and the sound of something rattling. A lot of somethings, actually.
The many gifts in one ordinary looking package marked "Today".