Sundays are my favorite.
I was born on a Sunday.
It’s the only day of the week when you’re supposed to relax … when it’s okay to just do whatever it is you wish, sans guilt. Rather imbalanced if you ask me, six days when you’re supposed to work work work and just the one day to be lazy.
What’s lazy look like for me?
Doing whatever I wish in the moment.
I love the routines of a Sunday … the structure of the non-structure of it … ideally it involves a full pot of strong coffee, half&half, NYT, local rag paper, music I don’t seem to listen to any other day of the week, cooking something that smells delicious and will yield several meals, thinking. “Daydreaming” … there’s even a judgmental connotation to that … and it’s something I do mostly all day every day, but Sunday is the only day it feels alright. How silly. How ridiculous. It’s how I’m wired … it’s what I need to gestate creativity … I’m hurting no one … why on earth should that be shameful?