If You Commit the Sin of Sloth on Sunday is it an Even Deadlier Sin?

Dylan, the Villain, in his adolescence

Photo credit:
J. D. Morehouse


On Sundays, I am a slug. I allow myself this. I am a woman who runs at 90 mph at almost all times. I over-commit and usually do not fail to deliver, no matter what it takes out of me. By Sunday I am tired. I don't get up to the alarm, even if it means I have to go walking later in the day or even into the evening. I do the weights and bands, but sometimes I do fewer reps than on the other 6 days. My home typically looks like hell by Sunday, so there is some necessary rehab work to be done. Usually there are no groceries left anywhere, so that must be accomplished, too. I like to make dinner for a friend on Sundays, and that requires just a little bit of tidying up, selecting music, menu decisions and hair primping. Uh-oh. On Sundays I am not a slug. I just sleep in a little bit and run fast in a different way than on the other 6 days. Sometimes I am very, very tired. I don't do "take it easy" very well. I behave like my mother. And that is a sobering thought.

In keeping with my fascination of human beings connecting with one another, yesterday the oddest series of clicks happened. A man in Honolulu landed on one of our company's websites that I'm inordinately proud of because I created virtually all of it. He called me to inquire about services and was pulled to both my voice and what I had to say. He wouldn't hang up. I'd told him everything there was to tell and he wasn't ready to schedule services, but he wouldn't go away. Finally I said, "Well, let us know if we can be of service." He called back immediately to tell this long, winding story about his properties throughout Hawaii and the San Francisco Bay area where his girlfriend lives, and how they have one property here in Las Vegas but both the tenant and the property management company have disappeared and the girlfriend and her mother are here this weekend cleaning the house up, painting, etc. because they need to rent it and, and, and . . . "Well, that's funny, sir. I worked a number of years as a property manager." Silence. Three hours and too many interstate phone calls later and my resume e-mailed, my company was providing service at the home, one of our staffers had been engaged (off-hours, in his own time) as a handyman, another staffer had been asked if he'd like to rent the home, and - I think - I'm the property manager. Bank accounts to be opened, locks to be changed, ads to be posted. And I had thought it was just another Saturday in the salt mine!

In my ears right now: The Byrds, "He Was a Friend of Mine". Why I like it: it's about JFK. And while there's no question that Jim/Roger McGuinn is singing lead, David Crosby's harmonizing is so pronounced that it's more like he's got the lead. I like that I can pick David Crosby's voice out. No matter which group he's with at any given time.

Something that charmed me today: My little black cat, Virginia Woolf, is a needy thing, and I'm not home much. She is known to head-butt for petting and to leap into the laps of my visitors and me for immediate attention. This morning, as I ground the coffee beans, she tiptoed figure-eights around my ankles. As I've been sipping my brew and typing at the keyboard, she's made herself into a vibrating (purring) backrest behind me in my chair. It is good to be kept by cats.