I’ve reached that point where days are merging into one another. I no longer know what day/date it is, and what I ought to be doing. Earlier, weekends were reserved for doing things like wearing over-sized tee-shirts, not showering till the end of day, and vegging out with a shitty TV show on hand. But now, I confess, there are weekdays (sometimes, several of them, the horror!) that go by with me waking up, doing homely duties like laundry, cooking lunch yadayada, getting it out of the way so I can get right back into bed. Yes, in that over-sized tee-shirt, and with no intention of showering till the end of day. Somewhere in-between, I get some work done too.
Yup, the joys of working from home, are a plenty. You don’t have to be dressed to do your job. You don’t have to do it between 9 am and 5 pm. And you can take long (and sometimes ludicrously long) breaks if needed. Also, if you ever feel the need for cupcakes, you can immediately address such cravings, by putting your work on hold, baking them yourself, and getting back to work whenever you’re feeling up to it again. Even if it is only after you have eaten a cupcake or two.
Every day now feels like the weekend around here. Last week I realised I had gone 7 days without going out. And by that I mean aside from a trip to the veggie market, one to the supermarket, and an hour-long walk everyday. I’m not counting these because they are entirely solitary activities, and have become mundane now. I’m talking a whole week of not eating out. Not socialising. Not meeting anyone. No movies. No wandering about coffee shops. Funnily, the week went by painlessly, without notice. I wasn’t complaining, just mildly surprised at how happily holed up I had been.
Its easier to do because I have a confirmed workaholic husband, who admits the only reason he now tries to come home at a sane hour (read never before 8 pm) is to get to have (and sometimes cook) dinner and be with me. That gives me a whole day to do as I please, and a lot of the past month has seen me do things about the house, within the house. I potter around, clean up, be house-wifely. For Diwali, I changed things around a bit too. I cook, I bake, I take pictures. I blog. I watch that stupid, stupid show. Sometimes I watch movies. I read. I work. I snooze in the afternoon. And in the evening I go take a nice long walk.
So yeah, every day feels like a weekend. But I can’t say the same for the husband. He treats his weekends well. They’re officially precious now. So when the real weekend rolls by, he saves it up for things like finishing the book he’s struggled to read through the week, or pull of a HIMYM marathon (who still watches that show anymore anyway?!), cook something special for a change, or generally sit around me in my over-sized tee-shirt, him in his night clothes, basically unbathed and not giving a damn, because well, its the weekend and we have no place special to be.
So when he came home last Saturday and proposed a trip to the beach on Sunday, I knew he was up to something. Either that, or he really needed the outing, because he is not one to squander a precious Sunday driving around in the heat, sitting in a shack and lounging around in the sea, getting sand in places sand shouldn’t be, when he could be chilling out in bed, at home, with beer straight out of the fridge. The husband suggesting a Sunday out is rare, and so we agreed to drive south.
It’s been a while since I last spent a day at the beach. Six whole months, in fact. And its always nice and refreshing to be back on the road, the wind in your hair and music in your ears, as you zip down the highway, heading towards the horizon at the end of which awaits a gleaming ocean.
The south of Goa is my new favourite place to be. Purely because there are many more pristine, unpopulated beaches. Even though the one we went to wasn’t desolate, its easier to find a secluded spot and enjoy yourself without being annoyed by noisy tourists and pesky people, something that is getting increasingly hard to do in North Goa.
Maybe it was the fact that we were a few days away from the full moon (I’m still not sure how tides work, btw) or maybe we just got really lucky, because after what felt like forever, we had a wonderful day for swimming.
The tide was high apparently, as the lifeguard did not hesitate to tell us about half a dozen times. But I felt the waves had pulled way back, and the sea had that beautiful shoulder, that breaking point of waves tumbling in, which once crossed gave us that vast expanse of just the ocean to lap about in, loll around and swim. We swam for a good long while, before we sat by the fringe of the sea, letting the waves come back and wash us down over and over. You know its a good kind of tired when your body has that wonderful ache that comes only from swimming in the sea.
We stayed until our shadows were tall and skinny, with the sun racing down, and we set off in time to try and catch a few open sky pictures on the highway. But we were a tad late, because this is all we got.
My body clock might have returned to normalcy for just a bit there. Because I had an actual weekend, in the midst of a series of faux-weekend-like days. But very quickly after, I slipped right back into my routine. And every day is a weekend once again.
PS: Yes, I have a foot fetish.
PPS: Yes, I’ve turned into an Instagram junkie, of the worst kind. And because the smart folks at Instagram finally did what they should have done a long, long time ago, you can now follow us junkies on the web!