Sign on an endcap display of smoothies at Dominick's: Summer rhymes with smoothies!
I had a packed weekend. The truth is that on the weekends, I like to do nothing at all. I enjoy eggy brunches, afternoon naps, lazy evenings, reading, and bicycle rides. Maybe renting a movie or taking Itha to the park if Weeks and I can ever get our schedules straight. But in general? I like to rest.
This weekend, however, was busy. I went to Lula with Jen on Friday night, which was pretty low-key. Then on Saturday, I ran errands in the morning before going home to pick up my bike. "I will go to the park and finish my book," I thought. "And probably I will run into people there, which will be all right." Except it didn't happen. Instead, I watched a group of kickboxing teenagers and glared at a pair of bratty pre-teens who had splashed water on me. I ate a petit pain au chocolat, and later I ate some so-so pad Thai from Penny's. I finished my book and took a nap. Throughout all of this, I tried to hide from the bright sunshine, but still I felt sunburn creeping over my shoulders.
Later in the afternoon, I pedaled down to Venus headquarters to send out some mailings and do other editorial tasks. Went home, ate some more (a recurring theme), and went to a goodbye party for Chad. Rode bike to Camp Gay and saw some bands. Was going to pedal over to Club Foot to see my brother play records, but by one in the morning, I chose sleep instead.
What's interesting to me now is that as I recount my Saturday, the writing tone changes. When I spend time alone, doing very little, I tend to notice more things and process the time differently. I remember details like snapshots. But when I get busy in my personal life (no, not getting busy in that way, pervy) my hours are whittled down to a to-do list. Or a "done" list. It's the difference between describing what I did and listing what I did. Nothing really profound to say, just a personal observation.
I had a packed weekend. The truth is that on the weekends, I like to do nothing at all. I enjoy eggy brunches, afternoon naps, lazy evenings, reading, and bicycle rides. Maybe renting a movie or taking Itha to the park if Weeks and I can ever get our schedules straight. But in general? I like to rest.
This weekend, however, was busy. I went to Lula with Jen on Friday night, which was pretty low-key. Then on Saturday, I ran errands in the morning before going home to pick up my bike. "I will go to the park and finish my book," I thought. "And probably I will run into people there, which will be all right." Except it didn't happen. Instead, I watched a group of kickboxing teenagers and glared at a pair of bratty pre-teens who had splashed water on me. I ate a petit pain au chocolat, and later I ate some so-so pad Thai from Penny's. I finished my book and took a nap. Throughout all of this, I tried to hide from the bright sunshine, but still I felt sunburn creeping over my shoulders.
Later in the afternoon, I pedaled down to Venus headquarters to send out some mailings and do other editorial tasks. Went home, ate some more (a recurring theme), and went to a goodbye party for Chad. Rode bike to Camp Gay and saw some bands. Was going to pedal over to Club Foot to see my brother play records, but by one in the morning, I chose sleep instead.
What's interesting to me now is that as I recount my Saturday, the writing tone changes. When I spend time alone, doing very little, I tend to notice more things and process the time differently. I remember details like snapshots. But when I get busy in my personal life (no, not getting busy in that way, pervy) my hours are whittled down to a to-do list. Or a "done" list. It's the difference between describing what I did and listing what I did. Nothing really profound to say, just a personal observation.
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