The Importance of Being Lazy

I have mornings—much like this morning, actually—where the snooze button and I become naughty acquaintances. She likes it when I feel my way around her. Sometimes I give her a caress, rubbing my hand over her to beg for another nine minutes of peace. Sometimes I give her a lazy swat and demand it from her. She digs it. That's how we roll.

But there comes a time when she or I have had enough of our game, and I stare up at the ceiling, nestled under the delicious coolness of Egyptian cotton sheets. Then comes the choice: get up for work or laze about all day? Maybe I'll mull this over for a bit and psych myself up for a day of work, or maybe I'll claim the day for myself.

On days like that, the ones I claim for myself, I refuse to rush. I'll start the day with a very long, very hot shower, and reach one dripping, wet hand out to select scented soap or gel (I have a thing for them!). It's hot here now, so I'll pick something summery…maybe Satsuma? Perfect. I'll take my time finishing and dressing before leaving the house. Sometimes lazy days don't happen at home.

My day out of the house will start with a few hours of browsing at the nearest bookstore. This is the only place I find any joy in shopping. I get a lot of pleasure out of just browsing…touching the books, appreciating their cover art, opening them to random pages to see if the words sweep me into their poetic cocoon. If they do, well…I'm not shy. I'll sit on the floor in the aisle and relish them for a bit. Then, I'll move on until I find JUST the right one…one with mermaid lore or the science of snowflakes or how to write a poem in perfect iambic pentameter.

After I've satisfied my inner geek with a book I can use for research for some type of poem or story I'm crafting, I'm off to a favorite coffee shop or café for a little writing time. I'll buy one of those yummy coffee drinks and settle into the hot seat, a place I can watch all the folks heading in and out. I'll take out my Uni-ball Signo and my red, hard-covered notebook with the Indian design on it, then open to the first pristine page. I love the connection I have with my work when I write it directly on the paper, in my very own handwriting. I'll smooth the page and start the half-dream process I have with the first draft of a story that I hope will have its own bits of magic.

There will be times I stop writing and just enjoy watching the patrons around me. If I'm lucky, an attractive stranger on his lunch break or on a coffee run will come in. Maybe I'll like how he holds the door for someone to go ahead of him or like that he keeps his drink order simple or like the uniform he wears. I'll try to catch his eye, and if I do, I'll cock my head to the side just a bit and smile up at him. And if I'm very lucky, he'll smile back and say hi as he walks past. Those little flirts get my heart racing, and I'll grin to myself, satisfied, and slip back into my own fantasy world unfolding on the paper before me.

When it's time to leave…when I'm close to over-staying my welcome at the café or when my hand starts to ache…I'll be relaxed and feel satisfied by the time I get home. Then, if I'm ambitious, I walk down to the beach near my house. Or maybe I'll stay lazy and curl up with the book on the couch. Soon enough, it will be time to wrap myself in the comfort of cool, soft sheets. And maybe, I'll indulge in a fantasy about the stranger in the café where I get to end my day the same way it began: with a bit of caressing or a few lazy swats. Maybe.

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