Time Off

It’s amazing how difficult it is for me to do nothing. Lay on a chaise lounge for hours in the sun. Sit looking out over the water. Who are the people who are so relaxed that they fall asleep at the beach? For that matter, people who fall asleep any time after they’ve been up?

I had the day off from work yesterday. So of course I’d scheduled a doctor’s appointment that morning. After verifying my good health, I slipped in a few errands (the bank, the grocery store, the library to return a book) before heading to my son’s school for volunteer duty. It was my day to relieve the teacher from the loathsome task of grading math assessments.

Then, six hours stretched ahead. Six hours with nothing scheduled, so I could do anything I wanted. Six hours is an eternity for a person whose mind might slow down but then is only at warp speed. I think I’m wired like a short-haired small dog – mostly “on” and with more movement than is necessary. When I have to attend day-long seminars, I have to bring several books, crossword puzzles, paper and pencil for writing/doodling/drawing, and an assortment of non-crunchy, non-obtrusive snacks to keep myself entertained for the six hours of dense course content. I don’t have ADD, I’m not hyper or manic, or any of the things that these days we use pharmaceuticals to squash. I can focus intently for long periods of time. I just can’t focus on nothing for long – or short – periods of time. I am, as you might imagine, able to get a lot done.

So how would I spend those hours?
 I could “relax” – whatever that means.
 I could spend 3 hours watching The Mists of Avalon on DVD, relishing Anjelica Houston as the ultimate Girl Power channeler and seeing Julianna Margulies, who felt like an old college friend from her ER days as Nurse Carol Hathaway, transform into the next Lady of the Lake.
 I could continue making my way through the book-club book that wasn’t yet at the half way mark.
 I could write, as I rarely have stretches of time this large to give to myself.
 I could do laundry, straighten the house, do any manner of chore.
 I could buy shoes, as I’ve been wearing my favorite sandals for so long that they’ve been re-soled twice and the inside of their soles has been irreparably dilapidated for over two years, but I couldn’t bear to swap them out.
 I’d already been to the gym before breakfast, so no need to work out.
 I could get out in the sun – no, make that should get out in the sun - as this was the most glorious day we’d had since last August, and no telling when an opportunity like this would return.

So here’s how I spent the six hours:

I got down to my skivvies, put some carrots in a little dish (one of the snacks I almost never grab for myself), grabbed a towel, the book-club book, and my middle-aged prescription bifocal sunglasses, and out I popped out to our back patio. I read. The sun was warm, welcoming, the sensations reminding me of all the time I’ve spent in the sun. It was like going to a reunion, but the sun and my white skin were the only ones who came. It was so warm I was surprised to be sweating. I read some more, then got distracted by thoughts of having to hydrate myself.

About 20 minutes later, I needed to cool down a bit, and I decided to go inside. I flipped through a couple of cable channels, found Giada preparing an orange and pineapple beef tenderloin, and in honor of my friends who can’t bear to put pineapple in food, switched it off. I started The Mists of Avalon. After 26 minutes, I decided I needed to get out a bit – it was still sunny, after all, and it felt somewhat like a betrayal (of whom, I don’t know) to be indoors watching the a marathon King Arthur movie. But I didn’t want to read. So I drove to Staples to make some copies and get some office supplies. I was able to go slowly through the aisles to ogle cool pencils, envelopes, journals, gadgets, and calendars while my copies were being made. I stopped at a great kitchen store on my way home, to check out 12” fry pans, since my husband threw out our old, slightly warped, non-stick that had clearly seen it’s day at least a year or two ago. No pans (too expensive), but an outrageously affordable Côtes du Rhône from the “declassified” section of a father-son vineyard that otherwise creates Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I returned home, stripped back down to my skivvies, and read some more in the sun.

When I could no longer contain the niggling worry of being mostly unclad under the midday sun, not a single digit of SPF anywhere but my nose, back in I came. I had some lunch, and returned to Avalon, just when Arthur and Morgaine are separated from their parents and each other. I watched some more, spoke with some friends on the phone, then received a call from the local bookstore that my son’s book had come in. I stopped the movie again, got dressed, and headed out to get the book. I popped across the street and browsed in an over-priced boutique with some lovely clothes that I don’t think I could ever wear (when did seams come back on the outside of clothes?). I came home, and started to prepare dinner. I sat down and returned to the movie. And blissfully got to the scene where Arthur asks Lancelot to impregnate the childless Gwenwyfar (neither of these three pawns realize that Morgause has cursed Gwenwyfar to barrenness) and to be with them as they consummate this grand deed of sacrifice for Britain. But the reader/viewer knows that this coupling has no chance of leading to pregnancy, thus it’s just a gratuitous carnal threesome, with two handsome, powerful men joining together to pleasure one woman. As Ina Garten would say, “What’s not to like about that?” (And yes, I just used a Food Network reference about a sexual fantasy.)

Low and behold, the six hours passed. I didn’t do a single household chore, which I consider a victory for preserving the meaning and intent of “time off.” I was my kind of relaxed. The combination of reading, watching a movie, sitting in the sun, and having the time to browse slowly through an office supply store, a kitchen store and a boutique, was just about the right amount of slow-down, even if it might have looked a bit disjointed to someone else to see me pop up from one quiet activity to drive off to another. It preceded a perfectly slowed-down evening - a glass of the lovely wine with a surprisingly tasty dinner (lamb-sausage burgers, sautéed with onions and peppers), and then a quiet night at home.

Not exactly like lying on a chaise lounge for 6 hours immobile, only to turn over every 20 minutes like a rotisserie chicken. But I’m not a good rotisserie chicken, apparently – and I saved all my writing for today, when I’ve got far less uninterrupted time. Go figure.