Another Saturday completed: we repainted the living room in preparation for a complete redecoration.
First and second coats and we’re pretty much done. I admit I’ll miss the yellow.
K felt it was too bright; I loved the way it made the room open.
Between coats, I mowed and raked some leaves. It was not warm enough to break a sweat, and so it almost didn’t even feel like work. But by most definitions, it was.
In another life, twenty-five to thirty years ago, my Saturdays were supposed to be days of reverence and quiet rest. Saturday is, of course, the seventh day; Jews and a few groups of Christians believe it is the sabbath, a time of rest. There’s something appealing about that to me, even today.
Still, in the intervening years, my associations with and expectations of a good Saturday have literally turned 180 degrees. Just as I couldn’t imagine mowing then, I can’t imagine not spending Saturdays working now.
It makes me wonder what else might flip-flop in my life, and what else has changed without me yet truly noticing.