I have done nothing all weekend. I didn’t do anything at night, I didn’t do anything during the day, I’ve done absolutely nothing. I was sick on Friday, so I spent most of the afternoon on the daybed-futon, propped up by pillows and quilted in with blankets. By Saturday I fully expected to be worse, so I added all episodes of “Say Yes to the Dress” to my Netflix queue and had B! stock up on Kleenex.
But on Saturday I felt… fine. No more sneezing, no more watery nose – I was just OK! But I’d really gamed myself into a trash-TV marathon, so I went ahead and watched 9 episodes anyway. Around 4, I mustered the motivation to do a little real-life Christmas shopping, so that was kind of a coup, but when B! and I thought about our evening, staying home seemed like the only realistic option. I was in bed by midnight. Say what?
I’ve barely managed to read a single article in the Sunday Times, my sloth has grown so vast. I just now changed out of sweatpants, there’s no way I’m taking a shower, and I made bacon for breakfast so the whole apartment feels like an oil slick. But hey, I’m not complaining. I haven’t had a weekend like this in forever. It’s kind of awesome.
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