I believe that Saturday is the best day of the week. Really, it is. I can’t think of another day that is so fantastic and full of life that can top this day of the week.
This morning, after having a bit of trouble falling asleep with my beloved, prone to snoring husband, I woke without an alarm after eight glorious hours of sleep. I snuggled deeper into his arms and relished the fact that I have nowhere to be today and he’s got a show he’s working the doors for late tonight. The day stretched out before us.
We got to cuddle a little before waking up the rest of the way and finding breakfast. The Bald One made scrambled eggs while I cooked the chicken and pasta for tonight’s dinner. We read the paper, drank coffee and I checked email while he solved the puzzles in the paper. This is how weekends are supposed to be.
Usually, he runs off to work on these days…either early and I get the bed all to myself for another hour or so or late, which means we have a very quick breakfast together and he runs off before I work in the yard or around the house. If I’m working a show, I try to do all that home type stuff today so I can relax after phone call-get ready-rehearsal/performance that is usually Sundays.
But Saturdays like this one are the absolute best. I got a full night’s sleep and cuddling in bed with my husband. We read the paper. The French doors are open to the screened in porch so the cats can lounge in the breeze while I enjoy the birdsong. In a minute, I’ll get up and pull on real clothes and we’ll be off to buy mulch and yard supplies so we can (finally) finish the front yard, together.
Saturdays like this one are why I work all week without (too much) complaint. For this precious, idyllic moment, I’d endure much.