I love Sunday mornings.
They are like Saturday mornings, but without the threat of impending yard work hanging over me.
By late yesterday afternoon I had finished up all of my usual weekend chores and errands, must-dos, gotta-dos, and dosie-dos. So I spent my Saturday evening in something of a waking coma: here, but not really here, if you know what I mean.
I actually sat down at the keyboard for a bit and tried to write something, but after an hour or two of staring blankly at the blank screen (a kind of Inception for blankness), I gave it up as hopeless and spent the rest of the evening eating Vieira Bolacha Marie cookies, drinking coffee, and watching one horrifically vapid YouTube video after another. And before I knew it, it was time for bed.
This gave me the opportunity of laying there and staring up at the ceiling and thinking, “What am I doing with my life?”
Rhetorical questions about the nature of existence are kind of like drinking so much that you think you can take on a Russian wrestling bear.
You’ll not come out of it unscathed, and in the end the bear will begin to wonder what it is doing with its life. Therefore, you are sort of like a virus, spreading existential angst to metaphorical Russian wrestling bears.
Is that what you want?
No, it is not. (For those of you who answered yes, there will be an opportunity for an extra-credit project towards the end of the semester.)
Anyway, what I started out to say is that it is Sunday and a day of rest. We can cast aside weighty concerns over the nature of existence and instead just relax. We can ignore the Perpetual List of Never-Ending Chores (PLONC). We can turn off the TV, tune out the world, become selectively deaf and blind, and dally with inconsequential divertissements.
But what is the nature of leisure, really?