At my first job out of college, Monday nicities about “how was your weekend?” revealed that a coworker spent Sunday in bed. This struck me as weird (so weird that six years later, it still sticks out). I guess I just didn’t understand why that would be enjoyable and, poor little sheltered me hadn’t yet experienced a relationship in which I would want to stay in bed all day with a certain someone. This coworker was a quasi-newlywed and now that I think of it, pregnant shortly after this conversation took place.
I was maybe 22 at the time and just starting to figure out the whole “adult” thing and staying in bed all day just didn’t seem very “adult.” However, fast forward six years and while I still don’t fully get the adult thing, I’m doing better…I kept my house clean all weekend, shopped for grown up clothes, participated in FFF as necessary and then…I spent Sunday in bed. And it was glorious.
Yes, I alluded the the fact that my coworker all those years ago might have been getting horizontally jiggy with it, but I assure you, I was not. I was alone. And it was still glorious.
I used to be very big on not wanting to be alone on Sundays, but yesterday it felt more like a choice. I wasn’t waiting around for a stupid boy to call, wondering if he’d find time for me. I was crocheting, snoozing, watching bad reality TV and snuggling with an empathetically lazy puppy dog.
It’s what I needed and I’m starting to realize that being an adult is about giving yourself what you need, not doing what others want you to do because it’s the “adult” thing.