Finally, Friday

by Brenda on April 13, 2012

My Sunday Moon

On Sunday nights with only the moon’s rays providing the back lighting in my room, I plan for the week. It’s when the hyperactive within me lightens up sufficiently to allow the passing of the baton to the calm sitting like a lone wolf in the blue-black quiet of both mind and night. In this interval, which is longer than a ten inhales, is where an expansive series of thoughts, such as the number of calories I ate during the day, last week, and how many I can have the following year, surface for inventory. It’s where I draft the blueprint for the week to come.

I’ve learned over the years to be considerate of my own self when drafting out the list to-dos. Even though I am a kindred spirit of Xena, Princess Warrior, capable of leaping tall buildings in single bound, cooking a soufflé with my one hand tied behind my back, and my eyes blindfolded, I do pad my list to allow for little luxuries such as:

  •  Drinking my Jamaican Mountain blue while it’s steamy hot and not cold and bitter after sitting on the desk until 5:22 PM.
  •  Flirting shamelessly with real and the imaginary characters I stumble upon during the week (the grey-eyed, curly lashed, 5’11” studious looking sales assistant at Alexander’s Books helping me locate a book I really don’t need but allow him to help me anyway because his voice is more a calling than a choice).
  • Day dreaming
  • Cleaning out the lint screen in the dryer – If I do this I can honestly proclaim I accomplished a domestic chore
  • Reckless pleasure (to be defined in the moment it presents itself)

Other than the little perks, the rest of my week consists of the must do things. My life isn’t all that different from others when it comes to the hard and fast non-negotiable tasks we’d all rather forget entirely, which I frequently try to imagine away.

A favorite scenario is Antonio Banderas rescuing me mid week thereby sparing me a life of passive verbs and unnecessary adverbs. If by Wednesday I am sitting at my desk writing about imagining him, I begrudgingly accept his love for Melanie has not wavered and he will not be storming the flank in his white Rolls Royce to rescue me from the mundane of my mid-week chores. It’s a colorful refuge this place in my writer’s mind. One day, I tell myself, he will recognize the error of his ways and come. But I digress as only a writer can do when they are reconciling the Sunday list to the Finally, Friday list.

A notable point to make here, when I am basking luxuriously in the silvery rays of the moonlight on Sundays I always race through the mundane and saunter over to the joy giving, toe tapping, and heart soaring, portion of my week’s plan. For me, this is my writing intention for the coming week. I don’t and won’t commit in writing what I start out to accomplish, but I do reconcile my Sunday list daily and again on Friday. I am often a day short and two or three thousand words behind my target, which leaves me feeling as if a dozen opened boxes of BB pellets is sitting in the bottom of my stomach. The weight of self-imposed guilt?  Unnecessary, of course.

Why is it I can categorically state I accomplished all the boring tasks, such as cleaning the litter box, scrubbing the grout in the shower, or finding the exact whatchamacallit my son needed for a school project yet but I am behind on that which brings me extraordinary glee. Why do we put ourselves, our passions, at the bottom of the list even if they start out at the top?

It’s not a mystery why we do this. What is a mystery is why we allow this to happen day after day, week after week.

I was that gal once and confess that there is the odd week I am still the woman who gets pushed to the bottom of my own list. Let’s face it, life is  unruly and sometimes cannot be harnessed.  Still, I am proud, joyful even, to say I am no longer a part of the collective ‘we’ anymore. I may not meet my word count each week, but I do push the mundane chores out of the way for what inspires me–writing and reading.

Do you?

And the Friday recap of the Sunday list:

  • I didn’t meet my daily word count (three days I exceed and one day didn’t)
  • I did smile a flirty thank you to the sales assistant at Alexander’s Books
  • I day dreamed every day this week
  • I drank hot steamy coffee two out five days
  • I didn’t vacuum the dust bunny commune growing at the speed of sound under my bed
  • I talked and texted with my girl (not on the Sunday list)
  • I planned a girl’s weekend with my oldest gal pal (also not on the Sunday list)

How do you spend the last minutes on Sunday before giving way to the night?

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