In Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, Eat, Pray, Love, there is sentence I’m dying to quote, but can’t locate it from memory. It’s about how our culture reinforces hard hard work all week and then the weekend comes and all we can manage is to sit around the house in a semi-comatose state. That about describes me, but I do semi-comatose very well. I even enjoy it.
This week it hit me on Tuesday night. Recently work has involved a lot of public speaking and that particular activity chews me up and spits me out like a flavourless, spent wad of gum. I made myself do 20 minutes on the treadmill just to be sure I was really exhausted and to justify doing nothing for the rest of the evening. This sounds terribly Type A behaviouresque, doesn’t it.
Cooked up a batch of low fat cream of broccoli soup and at 8:15 I announced that I was retiring to the spare bedroom for a glorious night of uninterrupted sleep. Nobody was allowed to knock on my door unless they were bleeding profusely. Even them, 911 would probably be a more effective approach. I obtained commitment from the boy that he would get up on his own instead of the usual drill of me begging him seven times to get ready for school. And you know what? He managed it just fine. For him, it’s not about inability to get in the morning, it’s the payoff of our daily morning battle, but that’s another post.
So, I took a night off from life. Too tired to pick up even the lightest of knitting needles, not enough energy to read, the lights were out at 8:30. Knowing I would be no good to anyone but myself, I took advantage of an opportunity to take care of nobody but ME. I highly recommend it. There were times in my life where this wouldn’t have been possible, but I guess it’s one of the benefits of getting older.
The next day I was ready to knit again:
Life's a Stitch 
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