This weekend was perfect. It was pretty much flawless, from start to finish, and I don’t usually ask more of a weekend than for it to involve a little bit of not-work, some no-pants, some leisure time combined with some leisure activities, maybe, and if I am lucky and do not feel too guilty and wasteful of my free time, perhaps a small nap. This weekend, I threw away the idea of guilt, the idea of work, the idea of obligation and the idea of tomorrow or the day after, deadlines, to-dos, and musts, and instead I spent the whole weekend luxuriating in what I want and what I need and what am I in the mood for, now? And it was absolutely perfect.
Friday, I curled my hair terrifyingly and was a sparkly disco queen, and then we watched a terrifying movie with angry zombies, which was also extremely sad and even a little heartwrenching, and at midnight I was happy-birthdayed very satisfyingly. I woke up cuddled and loved on every side, with a bed full of dogs, trained into the city reading a very good book, and treated myself to some grooming, the likes of which I have too many thumbs to complete on my own without professional help–eyebrows, nails, lady-waxing (the gift that keeps on giving–to everyone), and I walked out delighted with my prettiness and my feeling of being taken care of.
I felt very taken care of. I felt luxurious and ambling, happy and
quiet and content. Contentedly, I did some shopping, and then it was
time for my workshop (We are writing NaNoWriMo books! We are all
very–what’s the synonym for “stupid” that we’re using? That’s right,
“ambitious”), a little more shopping, checking into the hotel and
crawling naked between the softest sheets outside of my own bed that I
have ever enjoyed, and drifting off. Being woken up in among the nicest
ways I have ever enjoyed, and happy birthday to me. Dressing up for an
amazing dinner. Fishnet stockings for me, French cuffs for him.
Concentrating so hard on my so ridiculously perfect carpaccio that I
forget to carry on my half of the conversation. Wine, a toast, dessert
so good I am moved to give the waiter a high-five.
A ride over to the lounge because my shoes are so tall (the taxi
driver: “but they’re GREAT!”), and then the discovery of the next big
thing in the science of gynecology (would you ever miss a pap smear if
your doctor wore a top hat and could pull a rabbit out of your
uterus?), more drinks, and our table filling up, spilling over to
another table, having to scramble for chairs. (“You are beloved,” E
says, that is exactly how it feels. It is how it always feels with
him.) At the hotel, how lovely, such an expanse of bed. How glad we
are that night; how pleased we are the next morning when we have a
whole extra hour more than we thought we did, before we have to check
out. We make the most of it. We don’t want the weekend to end. It is
pouring, as we drive home slowly. Beloved–a good word for it. The best
word for the weekend. The best weekend.