We are facing a charged week with five medical appointments, one an all-day trip to Bern, a hair cut (Rick's obviously), misc. administrative stuff, normal writing deadlines. A dinner with friends at the end is much looked forward to.
Thus when I woke at 3:18 after falling asleep to Midsummer Murders I realized I hadn't set the alarm. I would miss my early Monday morning physio if I overslept.
I couldn't find it my phone that I use as an alarm. I forced myself to stay awake until Rick woke to tell me, it was Sunday, not Monday.
No matter where I lived, no matter whether I've been working or not, Sundays have been my favorite day of the week.
There were the bagels and Boston Globe in bed mornings as roasting coffee smells came thru the heating grate. Or those mornings in PJs sitting at my kitchen table drinking hot chocolate and watching snow fall on the château across the street.
Or the Sunday walks with the chins Albert and Amadeus along the Muddy River or having a picnic with them by the waterfall where Rousseau contemplated life and cows chewed their cuds.
There were the wonderful Sundays watching Providence and Friends with neighbor Marina, or when my little Indian neighbor would knock on the door to give tours of my flat to her sleepover friends and we would shoot rainbows thru my prism.
And there are the Sundays where a Chinese buffet in France seems wonderful, or going on a photo safari thru the shutdown streets in Argelès.
Through-out the decades, the Sundays have a common theme. No obligations. I could read all day or not, visit friends or not and it was the or not that I loved.
"Really? Sunday?" I asked Rick. He wouldn't lie to me about Sunday. I rolled over and fell asleep thinking how lucky I was to have found a Sunday.