Sacred Sunday

29 April 2007

Some people have date night. Honey P. and I have sacred Sunday. It’s the one day of the week that remains relatively untouched–barring weekend houseguests (not typical) or travel plans (even less likely)—and devoted to living in the margin.

The day begins with our reading the Sunday New York Times in our fuzzy robes. I get the Week in Review, Arts & Leisure, Travel, Business, and Sunday Styles. P. gets the homepage, sports, magazine and book review. We almost never trade sections. At the hour mark, breakfast (always eggs, bacon, toast, and espresso) begins. Then, clean up and ramp-up for what’s left of the morning and the afternoon.

Sometimes we spend the entire day working at our desks to unbury ourselves from the undispatched detritis of the week. Sometimes, we meet friends for a late brunch. Sometimes we walk into Andersonville and wander through the shops and boutiques.

Today, home improvement. We and half of the neighborhood showed up at The Gethsemane Garden Center for the first flush of spring/summer foliage. A little over $300 later, we returned home to plant. Two rosebushes. Three columbines. Two flats of vinca. Some shrubby purple flowers that looked adorable until I realized it would translate into five more minutes of stooping, digging, sweating, and swearing. And three hanging plants with baby petunias (I have no idea what they really are, but they look like petunias) for the balcony. Two hours later, I’m tan, sweaty, dirty, and wondering how we managed to move into another season of short-sleeve shirts and single layers without my shedding the extra 25 pounds that continue to make tanktops a privelege and not a right.

We move indoors. There’s a small space in the living room that, until two hours ago, housed a campaign desk, palm, and aphid-infested hibiscus. The hibiscus was rescued (better living through chemicals) and moved outdoors with the palm, and we decided make that space a reading nook. Which meant wrapping the desk for storage and hauling it up to a relatively unused closet one floor up. And scrubbing the windows and floors clean of dead aphids (they’re like sea monkeys, but unflushable). And hauling a chair down three flights of stairs. (Few things try a relationship as easily as heavy furniture, winding staircases, and the need for someone to walk backwards.)

Then there was vaccuuming. And three loads of laundry. An hour worth of emails left from last Friday. And a second, desperately needed shower.

In a little bit I’m going to fire up the grill and pour myself a glass of wine to ease the pain in my back and legs and shoulders. Tonight’s dinner is skirt steak, grilled zucchini and onions tossed in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, a mixed green salad with tarragon dressing, and roasted potatoes. And after that, my favorite part of Sacred Sunday begins. The fuzzy robes, martinis, hours of incidental television, and our holding hands together on the couch. For just a little bit, the week that’s just passed is a distant memory, and the week-to-come feels a long and dim ways away.