sunday
It's Sunday morning. That's the first thought that washes warmly over my stirring consciousness, even before my brain has sent signals to my eyes to try that cool trick where the lids rise and the corneas focus. Sunday morning, and no work to get up for, or people to meet, or calls to make. And without any obligations preventing me from further sleep, I am abruptly wide awake.
Morning is, of course, a relative term, and having reached out to pull my laptop from the bedside table down to my lap - still without opening my eyes - I start it up to find that the computer clock is reading 12:05pm. Without even brushing my teeth, I run through what must surely by now be in the virtual world a common morning toilette - checking gmail, bloglines, and statcounter - before indulging in my special Sunday treat of the New York Times Style section. I dutifully browse the trend articles but linger over my secret shames: the Modern Love column, the streetstyles slideshow, and (most ignominious of all) the Weddings stories.
For all my promiscuity with weekday nights and even - more often so now - Saturdays, my Sundays are jealously guarded. I take my time over blogs, aggregators, and online news, so by the time I make it downstairs for brunch almost an hour has passed since my first half-conscious stretch in bed. On the dining table is spaghetti, and I reach for the grated cheese with one hand while the other flips open the Sunday Times. I know most people curl their lip at the Sunday paper - I'm guilty by association, if not also by deed - but I covertly enjoy the longer, lighter-hearted, more featurish articles, and as usual I skim the paper cover to cover. Today's articles are lacklustre but one is of particular interest; I skipped out on work early Friday night to make it to an event, and didn't manage to check on the final version of a story that was to run today. Fortunately the copy was clean, or so I assume because I can't find any major changes. I really should start leaving the office earlier, I think to myself, while my mouth carries on a protracted conversation with my parents about the virtues of cheddar over parmesan (it's less smelly, is the conclusion).
Nutritional duties performed, I head back upstairs intending to spend a half hour with Pinker's Language Instinct before hitting the gym, but my attention wanders and I pick up Hercule Poirot instead. What the hell, I rationalise - it's Sunday. I keep one eye on the clock because I need to make it to Capital Tower by 2:30 for the body balance class, but either out of laziness or complacency - or, as I've recently begun to suspect, an inferior understanding of the way time works - I only force myself to start getting ready at 1:45. I reach the gym just on time, already slightly out of breath from speeding along the CTE, only to find that the class is already full. So I curse under my breath and go for the treadmill instead.
... I wish I could continue this but even I am getting bored so I imagine everyone else is too. Damn it's hard to write a novel. Before you get to, like, one page of interesting plot you have to churn at least ten pages of build-up and I would die.
Anyway this was a tribute of sorts that I've been meaning to try for some time, although the extent of its ineptitude probably precludes any guesses as to my inspiration. But, well, you know what they say about imitation and flattery, even if the former is but a feeble attempt.
Actually maybe I should have written about the series of text messages that constituted a conversation between me and my bimbo boss earlier today. Now that was interesting. But maybe for another time, after my mission has been accomplished. Haha.
posted by zyn ::
12:54 AM ::
1 Comments ::
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