Two weeks ago, I asked my husband what he wanted to do for Valentine’s Day and he replied that he had been harboring a fantasy of spending a whole day in bed. It’s not what you think. OK, well, a little bit what you think. But we are old people so the fantasy was more in the direction of reading the newspaper, drinking coffee, not paying bills or pruning trees or cleaning the house or working, in short, not doing a blessed constructive thing. What a terrific idea. I agreed at once, looked forward to it all week, and I have to say that I got so much done during my day in bed. I polished off several magazines on my nightstand, finished the novel I had been reading for weeks, read through a graphic novel that I kept renewing from the library because I never had a chance to look at it (Persepolis), and spent a whole day not worrying about money for a change. In short, I took a break.
I confess that I did do some writing, but nothing obligatory or work-related, just fun stuff. I surfed the internet for some information I had been meaning to look up. Listened to music. Watched a silly movie. Petted my cats. We did go out for a walk just before sunset, otherwise I would have spent the day in my nightgown. And it was a revelation that I could give myself permission to goof off for an entire day. I am so driven: to work, to write, to do something useful with my life, to earn money, to accomplish things. Other people probably take that kind of break regularly. A Sabbath. I have trouble giving myself permission to accomplish nothing in particular. I learned from my day in bed that I definitely need more Sabbath in my life.