Mr. Handsome is home all week and the calendar is completely blank. In fact, I went ahead and put up the January page since there was nothing to look at on December’s. Life is so slow that I don’t even look at the calendar (except for this morning when I made the switch), I read in the middle of the day, and I let the dirty dishes (from our supper of leftovers because I’m not cooking all that much) wait till the morning. We’re one step above lazy and bored. We are completely relaxed. If someone were to come lift and let go of our collective family arm, it would fall with a thud.
This level of relaxed is rare. I’ve learned that my body lets down in proportion to the amount of vacation time allotted. For regular weekends, there’s Friday’s huge sigh of relief, Saturday’s jobs and errands, and Sunday’s snooze-y-ness. But then there’s the gearing back up for the week. This time though, we relaxed for Christmas and then on Sunday night I found myself relaxing even more. This deeper relaxation is one I rarely feel. Normalcy is maintained, but at a much-reduced rate.
Mr. Handsome hasn’t had an entire week off since...since...well, maybe not since we bought this house five years ago and he worked round the clock to fix it up. But that doesn’t really count since he was out here at this place and I was back in town at the old place with three little kids and a lovely case of morning sickness. Plus, he was so stressed that he could hardly sleep. He looked right rough. We were most definitely not relaxed.
It’s not that my husband never takes off. He does. He stays home for a day or two here and there and comes home early or goes in late as the need arises (a huge perk of being self-employed), but normally when he takes off any notable length of time it's because we’re going somewhere to visit people or someone’s coming to visit us. For him to have a week (plus Christmas Eve Day, too!) to just be at home with us is unheard of. We eat our meals together and he cleans the toilet (in his own way) (which is way better than my way) and we fight over our—I mean, my—book. And then we go to bed early because we’re old farts underneath our youthful demeanor.
He is working this week, but it’s here. By 6:30 this morning, he was dressed and in his coveralls, heading out to the barn where he’s building The Stairway To Heaven. And in his spare moments he runs around the house with drywall tape and a tray of spackle, fixing our pockmarked walls.
I suggested that perhaps the girls and I could go to Barnes and Noble some evening for coffee and he said sure (extended time in his barn puts him in very pleasant spirits) but then I (so far) ended up never saying anything to the girls because I don’t want to put on my going-out clothes.
So maybe I am lazy after all.
I might be getting a little bored, too. But just—yawn—a little.
This same time, years previous: tomatoey potatoes and green beans,