I’ve emerged fresh, sunshiny and very rejuvenated after a weekend of beautiful, wonderful sloth. The kind of sloth that comes from cutting back from my routine and having absolutely no demands on my time. I got to actually catch up on all the things I have put off for The Weekend. Yes, not any weekend, but this weekend because VC was away on a 3-day biking trip, and it’s only when he travels that I let myself off the hook. It sounds terrible when I say it like that, because it implies that he cracks the whip around here, making me work to a routine, when the truth is he couldn’t care less. In fact he’d love it if I relaxed a little and let go of the tyranny of a tedious routine. Honestly, the ties of a routine that bind me down are completely self-made. The doing of my Type A personality that sometimes worries when I have too much free time on hand. So I have a routine, and I chalk out my time, so I can function in some kind of sanity that makes sense to me. But, off and on an opportunity like this presents itself, and I’m always surprised at how much I enjoy it.
Lying in bed lats night, having turned in extra early, thinking about the weekend reminded me of how much I love flying solo. Considering I have never lived completely alone (a phenomenon very common amongst women in India, apparently), and I quite like the regimented life otherwise, it made me ponder about why I turn to routine, and who decides what this unattainable ideal of a perfectly flowing, full and bustling life is the way to go. So I wrote half a post about it. I pondered some more about how blissful a simple three-day weekend of no extraordinary activity had been, and wondered if maybe I unnecessarily chase after “something more.” I am increasingly realising once again (or rather I’m being made to remember what I seem to have forgotten) that I am just an ordinary 99%-er perfectly happy with a mediocre but fulfilling life. And so I wrote half a post about that too.
Several changes at VC’s work have ensured that he no longer travels as frequently as he used to 1-2 years ago. Back then I often joked that the outward displays of love were short-lived. That once I was done whining about hating being alone, whispering sweet nothings about missing him, and kissing him good bye as I sent him out the door, I would walk back in to whoop with joy. Because the time apart guaranteed a chance to just be, unfettered by the machinations of my self-made trap — the routine I claim I love so much. So when he goes away for more than a day at a stretch, I really get to cut those ties and just do my thing. Which usually involves cooking a large pot of dal and eating it four meals in a row, so I don’t have to interrupt my reading or movie-marathoning to get up and fix myself a meal. In that sense, I do nothing else. No chores, no work, no cooking, no cleaning. No alarms, no gym, no hectic socialising.
And that’s precisely what happened, a whole lot of nothing and everything of a different kind. It seems like it is just what I needed. Because after weeks of wandering around feeling not quite fully rested, not quite completely fulfilled, not quite really at peace, not, today I woke up feeling just. so. pumped.
A complete break from the usual, meant that I got to do things I keep putting off for when I am free. Read a decent bit, catch up on about four weeks of episodes of my TV show guilty-fix. I also watched Spotlight The Big Short, and finished watching Cooked too.
Friday was spent at home. I had some work to finish up, post which I read myself to sleep, a good long nap, and spent the rest of the day at home just chilling. On the weekend, I caught up on solo time with friends, which is something I haven’t done in a very long time. P and I had actually planned to spend Saturday on a beach in the South, but I had a touch of UTI and as excited as I was to be outdoors and by the sea, I didn’t fancy having to use a public loo, getting sand in places sand shouldn’t be (when you have a UTI) and risking being away form home in case my symptoms worsened. So I called it off, and we decided to catch up for a light lunch instead. But even before that happened, I was woken up by messages from the gang at kickboxing, because they’d planned to go get breakfast together. The thought of crispy, warm Goan buns really wakes me up, so I drgged myself out of bed and to breakfast quickly. I spent the rest of the day back in bed, reading and watching something or the other, until about 7 pm, when I realised I’d actually made dinner plans with D a few days ago. Since we were catching up at her home, I decided not to go empty-handed. I bought us some rasmalai for dessert and trudged over. We finished an entire bottle of Sula Seco between the two of us, and talked so much about so many different things, while her dogs enviously eyed our plate of fried prawns and prawn biryani, that I lost track of time. I drove myself back home at almost 1 am, and was too buzzed to sleep. So, I watched some more TV.
On Sunday morning, my gardner didn’t show up. It wasn’t planned that way, but I was glad because it meant I didn’t have to get out of bed. At all. I woke up only at 11, and after much contemplation and willing myself to rise, I fixed myself an fully-loaded omelette for brunch. I had it with two toasts slathered with Amul garlic and herb butter. It does the trick of making a meal of breakfast. Topped it up with a large mug of sweet chai and I was set. For another day of lying in bed, that is. More sloth continued. Reading, watching TV, I even doodled a little and napped too.
VC came home in the evening after his three-day bike ride trip. He was so exhausted that he got into bed too. Perfect. I didn’t plan to cook dinner and we could have ordered in, but I’d brought home leftover biryani from Saturday night, so all I had to do was microwave it in time to eat. Which meant that I had no reason to leave bed right until dinner time. Which happened earlier than usual and we found ourselves back in bed by 9.30. I realised I’d clocked just a little over 1000 steps. Ordinarily, I’d have balked. But yesterday, I. Just. Didn’t. Care.
I opened my book and began to read.