I may be in the minority here- but I dislike Sundays. In fact, I would even go as far as to say I dislike them MORE than Mondays.
I like order. I like knowing what I am doing each day. I like routine. I say that, and I’m still a mess. But Sundays are never preplanned.
It’s a wake up and see how it goes sort of day.
Screw that. I need an itinerary.
I always preplan what I will do. And the mental list is always way overshooting.
Clean the house. Mop the floors. Put on pants. Organize my pots and pains. Brush my teeth.
You know, really ambitious tasks. Shoot for the stars, right?
This Sunday started out with two adorable gremlins in my bed. Don’t get me wrong- it was cold and I appreciate the body heat. ( Unless I’m hormonal and having hot flashes then get the fuck off me, thank you child.) But the big boy snores and the little girl rips her diaper and pees the bed. MY bed. And I’ m in said bed.
(Yes, my life is that glamorous.)
My big plans were to do loads of laundry. And now I just added to my work with piss sheets. Thanks, kid. But instead of tackling my Mount Vesuvius of stinky ass clothes…
I decided to go for a run in the Arctic tundra. Don’t worry. I wore the neon print spandex so the search party to more easily locate me if I met a fatal end to the winds and cold and they had to find me in a snow bank.
I live in Atlanta. A light dusting IS major, okay?
Then I still by passed the laundry and decided, “Hey. Let me watch every episode of Grey’s Anatomy ever made. ” I know, super productive. I’m thinking of writing a motivational book. Look out for it.
And pretty soon, the kids were asleep, and the pinot grigio was poured. And I had pie for dinner.
This is why I need a damn plan.
Originally posted 2016-01-25 12:06:58.