Sleeping In

When I woke today, it was already light- all quiet but for the rain.  No alarm, no cats.  No Dave making coffee in the kitchen, singing nonsense songs about having become an indentured servant to a woman and two felines, or about how his sternman (me) needs to get out of bed.  Instead, he is still asleep, somewhere on the outskirts of Calgary, dreaming of his imminent moose hunt.

When I woke today, I didn't even need to get out of bed.  It's one of those weekends.  I could sleep through it, read through it, see no one, run away, watch the entire series of South Park, surf the internet until my eyes fell onto my keyboard- in the words of Terry Pratchett, the world is my mollusk...or, judging from the introverted options I listed, I am a mollusk.  No deeds to do, no promises to keep.  Not the sort of weekend you get very often once you qualify as an adult.  

So then there's the question: What to do with it?

I did roll out of bed, originally intending to crawl back into it.  I fed the cats, bade farewell to the contents of my bladder, and then turned to head back to bed.  And I probably would have made it back, except I compulsively looked at a clock.  6:25 am. 

The borderline. 

I could get up, have a nice pokey morning with coffee, and puttering.  Or I could sleep in.  In my nice bed, on a rainy morning.  But if I sleep in, will I ever get up?  My actual stated goals for these Daveless weekends were along the lines of "Oh, I am going to thoroughly clean the house" and "well maybe I will treat them like writing workshops..."  All very proper and productive. 

But there is a certain allure to sleeping in, even with the knowledge that going back to bed and sleeping until, say, 8am- would probably set a pattern whereby I would spend the weekend in some horizontal position, doing nothing more strenuous than producing oil with my scalp.  I know- I make that sound terrifically enticing, don't I? 

Clearly, since you are reading this, and since my foreshadowing kept no secrets, I did get up.  I have made it all the way down to the couch, with a rest stop at the Keurig.  Unfortunately, I have found my way under another comforter, and the cats are ostentatiously advertising the joys of napping. One has moved to my side, to transmit the sleeping sickness through touch and the lulling vibration of his purrs.  Why have I taken these demons into my home? 

Will I ever keep my eyes open long enough to burn the trash, take out the compost, vacuum and wash the floors, and totally reorganize the office?  So.  Much.  At.  Stake. 

So.  Sleepy.