There are worse things than being up at seven-thirty on a Sunday.

The beeping alarm.
The whimpering dog.
Don’t want to wake up.
Rather sleep like a log.

The trill of the phone.
An awakening brain.
I have pants to iron.
Wish it looked like rain.

(There’s no chance of rain.)

There are worse things than being up at seven(-thirty)on a Sunday.
There are worse things than being up at seven(-thirty), after staying up til three making pans of chocolate cookies, and avoiding any writing, ’cause your brain was feeling foggy, and napping was delightful, on a Sunday…with an absent spouse.

(With apologies to the creators of Sunday in the Park with George)

Fuzzy sent a text message this morning to let me know he appreciated all the texts he received yesterday from various friends and strangers. I’d posted to my LiveJournal asking people to send him birthday greetings, since sending a cake to his hotel in Hong Kong wasn’t cost effective.

I’m having a severe allergic reaction to something, but I’m not sure what. All I know is that I’m so itchy I want to claw off all my skin. This is never good.

I’m going to check out the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship this morning, and there’s a potluck after. When I get home, I think I will take a benedryl and a long nap.

Happy Sunday. Have a lovely day!

CC BY-NC-ND 4.0 There are worse things than being up at seven-thirty on a Sunday. by Melissa Bartell is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

One thought on “There are worse things than being up at seven-thirty on a Sunday.

Comments are closed.