In These Idle Hours

Today has been quietly full. (I type this a little before six in the evening, windows open, sun still out, thoughts of bed still hours away.)

A large chunk of it was taken up by one of those boring domestic purchases, and the putting-together thereof — my local gym has gained a lot of new members recently, and hoboy is it overcrowded, with no rumors of expansion in sight. That, and it’s apparently become the #1 flirting spot for the girls’ and boys’ high school basketball teams. Strike three is all on me: I’m really good at talking myself out of going when the weather’s bad.

Thus, when the tax return came in, we went and got ourselves a treadmill. Nothing fancy, and it’s possible that when it really warms up here (and isn’t nigh-on sunset when I get home from work) it’ll sit semi-idle over the summer, but I’ve been eyeing one for years. The timing worked out.

Anyway. Brought it home, put it together. Greg and I make a pretty good team.

I’ve had the sourdough going in-between times. It’s on its second rise. We’ll see if I can ever get it to sandwich-bread height.

Dinner’s cooking, too: steak and some oven-baked fries to go with, taking advantage of the gorgeous weather to start the 2012 grillin’ season. I’ll pour a glass of wine when we eat, and we’ll spend an hour or so with some form of Story — probably Once Upon a Time which has its (rather deep) flaws but I’m still digging anyway.

I feel a bit guilty, even though there’s nothing at all wrong with how the day’s gone. I should be writing. I should be building the world for the next book, or gnawing on the story I want to submit for Viable Paradise. I should read one of the books on my to-be-read shelf, or catch up on book reviews for this here blog. I should open that drafts folder and finish one of those gorram half-written essays.

I should take advantage of this free-from-obligation Sunday and do something grand and productive with it.

And maybe I still will. Maybe once the sun has dipped below the horizon and we finally admit it’s still March, so it’s time to disappoint the cats and close the windows, I’ll open up a file and get typing.

For now, though, it’s a pretty afternoon. The breeze coming in smells like spring, and inside, the kitchen smells wonderful. I’m letting myself be a little contemplative, a little melancholy (because that’s what this kind of day does to me, too), and a lot content.

I’m two days early, I know, but I’m wishing it at you anyway:

Happy spring, all.

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