If youíre a lazy workaholic like me, today was probably the most you can expect from a Sunday. The pace was slow enough, but I still got done what I needed to (but only what I absolutely needed to). I spent the morning watching the race, and I spent the afternoon doing those pesky spreadsheets while watching the Giants beat the Mets.
And I did my twelve minutes in the yard this morning. That part probably could have gone better, but I was unexpectedly let down by my legs. I expect my heart to pound and my breathing to become labored, but I didnít think my legs would quit on me after only twelve minutes. Even so, nearly half the yard has now had the once-over with the mower since I got it two months ago. Iím getting there.
Then tonight, after the work was done and once it was clear the Giants were going nowhere in the second game, I finished the book I never seem to have time to read during the week. I wasnít quite done when darkness fell, so I turned on the reading lamp and kept going. Itís that rush of the last hundred pages that makes all the time youíve invested pay off. I couldnít stop reading, and I didnít want it to end.
But it did end (at 9:11 pm, kind of a twisted numerology, considering most of the book is set in Afghanistan). Thatís when I got around to fixing myself something to eat and reminding myself that tomorrow is nothing more than another Monday. Somehow remembering that made this Sunday even sweeter.