strike that

Superb Owl

Today was a Sunday for all Sundays. The archetypal Sunday. The most Sundayest Sunday I’ve had in a long while.

It started with sleeping in, as all good Sundays should – but sleeping in just enough to feel rested and not so much as to feel wasteful. Then there was a bagel and juice and This American Life filling the house as I wiped counters and gathered laundry, because Sunday is a good day for feeling that you have Restored Some Semblance of Order. Then there was A Prairie Home Companion, but it was the unfortunately annual Jokes show, so there was a sunny spot on the new red couch with the New Yorker.

Next was the Superbowl, cause it doesn’t get more Sunday than that. Seven of us crammed around a table in a packed Hawthorne Street bar, drinking beer and passing baskets of onion rings and occasionally yelling at the game, but more often laughing at the Puppy Bowl being shown on the adjacent screen. Four hours of puppies running about on a tiny model football field. Can you imagine pitching that to the network?

On the way home I detoured to the coffee shop where I often spend Sunday mornings, and I unrolled the paper next to a steamy apple chai, because it had been a while since I decided I don’t like chai, and it was perhaps time to give chai a second chance. It turns out I still don’t like it. I read about Kosovo and a bookmobile in rural New Mexico and John McCain, and then I unrolled the magazine and for the first time ever, ever in my whole life, I completed the Sunday Times crossword all by myself, in one sitting, every last square. And when I penned the final C I let out such an exclamation of surprise (that I think sounded something like WaHah!) that the woman at the next table turned and looked over her reading glasses at me.

And here I am with eight minutes of Sunday left to go, with clean clothes and sorted recycling and Kim Richey singing I’m Alright on repeat, and I think I’m getting back to myself again, and Monday here I come.

posted by tortaluga @ 11:52 PM