Don’t get me wrong, I was so grateful to have yesterday off of work for Veteran’s Day (thanks to the sacrifices made by countless service men and women, including my maternal grandfather), but it’s alarming the ease with which I can lose my momentum to go back to work after being home even for a day. The Sunday Night Blues are a weekly recurrence, and I had this exact talk with someone in my office only last week: we’re afraid that if we stay home one day, we’ll never go in again. So imagine how difficult it was to peel myself out of bed this morning after an unseasonably warm Tuesday that found me getting a manicure, picking up fresh flowers for the week, and lunching with my mom at a French patisserie. Now add fog and misting rain and you’ll understand why all I wanted to do was burrow under the covers and pretend I’d never heard my alarm. Another two or three hours or sleep wouldn’t have hurt. Eventually, at a more reasonable hour, something would rouse me into consciousness (probably Fitz) and I’d have to get up, but only to move to the sofa and under another cuddly blanket. Give me a big book and an even bigger mug of hot chocolate, and I’d never go to work again. The momentum. It’s gone.
I actually bought those lovely pajama pants in Greece, and they are the softest and comfiest things ever. And yes, I’m stilling making my way through Edward Rutherfurd’s “Paris,” since starting it in July. It normally doesn’t take me this long to finish a book, even 800-page ones, but I’ve been putting it down for weeks at a time. I’ve finished seven (and a half!) other books while muscling through this one. Seven! I’m more than halfway through “Paris,” but clearly I need a day off just to read.