It’s almost two in the morning. Yet again, I should be sleeping, but I’m writing now, not because the inspiration is particularly striking, but because I don’t know when I’ll have a chance to write again. So now I’m enjoying my new scented candles and the way the apple cinnamon aroma mixes with the night air coming through my back door.
I needed this long weekend.
Julie and I just got back from Pat and Jen’s one-year anniversary party, in which I was finally able to give them the anniversary gift I’d been saving since the wedding: a collection of video messages left by guests during the reception (recorded on the laptop I’m using to type this right now, no less).
I also got a chance to try their new Wii Fit, learned how to play Bohnanza (a bean trading game), and pigged out on gigantic hamburgers and German potato salad.
Been trying to finish my projects and tie up loose ends.
Been trying to match schedules with people: next weekend is dinner with Misun and Frédéric and their two boys (which we’ve been trying to coordinate for more than a month now), the weekend after is ____’s visit, and the one after that is dinner, movie, and Cranium with Dan and his family.
Been buying light fixtures and shelves and candles, indulging my obsession with frosted glass, and making minor house upgrades.
Been spending more than I should.
Been in love with her more than I can help.
The weekends are all I have left. After working 8+ hours during the week, I don’t feel like doing anything but vegging out when I get home. So now it’s already Sunday — or Monday morning, I should say — and I feel like I’ve accomplished nothing so far. Not that it’s a bad thing, since I’ve been able to enjoy myself instead of feeling guilty that I’m not getting enough done. I tell myself that I’ll be productive when I wake up, but who knows.
Sometimes, long weekends are for catching up on doing nothing. And man, am I behind in that.