I really, really love three-day weekends. While I don't dread Mondays nearly as much as I did when I taught in the traditional school setting (i.e., lesson plans, grading essays, tests, making copies, controlling a classroom), I still get that Sunday-afternoon feeling of, "Ugh....tomorrow I have to go back to school."
When I have a three-day weekend, though, on Sunday afternoon I say, "Oh goody. I get to stay home again tomorrow!" And then I take another nap or three. I wanted to ride my bike yesterday because I knew the weather was going to take a turn for the worse today and the rest of the week, but I was too disausted to move out of my recliner. Hubby came home from playing golf yesterday and found me in almost exactly the same position I was in when he left that morning.
Since I didn't have to get up this morning, Hubby told his mother just to call us when she woke up and we would come help her use the potty chair. She let us sleep in..... all the way to 5:24. This is getting old. And every time I think that, I want to kick myself for being uncharitable. I know she can't help the fact that her arm is broken and her legs are too weak to hold her up, but she has these moments where she's... demanding... complaining... argumentative.
The predicted torrential downpours never materialized, at least not until after we ate supper. I could have ridden my bike today after all, but I wasn't a total slug. I did four miles on the elliptical, I went to the grocery store (onerous chore that it is), I changed the sheets on our bed, and I washed a load of laundry. I also crocheted some on baby Luke's afghan and played a gazillion games of pinball on my iPad.
I didn't even mind (much) that it rained and spoiled what would have been our last swim of the year. The pool folks are coming to cover it up and winterize it this Thursday.
What I really hate about three-day weekends, though, is the fact that they leave me wanting another few days off.