Ah, hot coffee is so much better than lukewarm. I sip deeply, luxuriating in the flavor of the dark, bold Sumatra coffee softened by the creamer. It is my drink of choice, a comfort of sorts, but difficult in this brutal winter-near zero weather to keep a cup warm. My microwave really gets a workout, as I find my coffee losing its heat over and over again.
Snowflakes drift from the sky, and I debate my options for this frigid Midwest Sunday. Hunker down and finish my book? Watch that tearjerker that my husband rented – I think he thinks I enjoy crying. I mean, I do it so much, I must, right? Or shower and dress and take this lousy cold or flu or whatever it is for a drive.
I’m sure my husband would like that latter thought. He is like spit in a skillet; he can’t stand to be in one place for very long. I used to feel the same, and it seemed he was the one that didn’t ever want to go anywhere. Now I find myself content staying home when life allows it.
Monday through Friday my sleep is prematurely interrupted by an annoying alarm clock that forces me from my warm covers and into the cold world. So when the weekend comes, and I can silence the alarm clock and lie in bed or rise to wander through my house with no pressures or obligations, no forcing my brain to trouble shoot or learn or give service, well, by the time Saturday rolls around, I am ready for it!! Ready for the reprieve.
When they say that opposites attract, they really mean it. My husband would be on the go 24/7. Seeking out friends or acquaintances, going on road trips, spending money. His antsy-ness makes me nervous, and for some reason, it makes me feel that my way is the wrong way. I start to wonder why I can be so content with so little. Am I really avoiding the world, because I don’t feel that I belong? Or have I really just grown beyond that need for acceptance by the world, and have found peace within? I like to believe it is the latter. I like to believe that I have found what I have been searching for all of my life, and it isn’t in the store or anyone else’s eyes or laughter. And it is a good feeling.
I think after that bit of doubting, I realize that my hopes are confirmed. Call me an introvert. Call me unsociable. It matters not to me. I’d rather hunker down with a good dose of “me” than to hop about searching for what I already have.
Now, I think I’ll find my favorite blanket and finish that book I’ve been reading. Aren’t Sundays great?