Dark-Thirty

Now and again I feel the need to hibernate, to lock the door and unplug the telephone and simply wallow in sleep.  Long weekends are perfect to indulge this small sin - to retreat and thoroughly shut out the world for a few days - to give all my time and attention to my little ones and have absolutely no routine or rules to follow. 
It's wanton idleness in its grandest form and I revel in it, though of course it wouldn't do for every day.

On the fourth day, I decide it's time to at least make an effort at being productive.  At dark-thirty, somewhere around 4am, I throw off the covers and trail the animals into the kitchen.  I drink a bottle of chocolate milk, light a cigarette, and begin filling food bowls.  The dogs and I step outside into the darkness - chilly and very quiet at 4am - and while they wander the yard, I plan my day, making a mental list of what's to be done before I can return to my snug, little nest in the sunroom.   After three days of solitude and total inactivity, it's more difficult than I imagine to wake up and plug in my motivation.  

This, I tell the little dashchund, is how it starts.  One day you're a productive, tax paying citizen and the next you're living under a bridge.

He yawns.

It takes until noon to get things in order.  Litter boxes changed, laundry done, dishes washed and put away, a quick dusting and even quicker vacuuming, all done with a certain half heartedness, just a means to an end.  I realize, only a little sadly, that I've had enough solitude - exactly enough to be ready and almost (not quite but almost) anxious to rejoin the world and go back to work.  Aside from the television, I haven't heard the sound of a human voice in four full days.  It's been a good rest.

The sun goes down, the streetlights come on and the dogs and I curl up on the couch for a final nap.  All's well that ends well.