Lazy Day

After lunch I lay down and took a nap. This nap was a mighty nap. I lay down at 12:15 and got up at 4:45. 

I dreamed. Several times I awakened and looked at the clock beside my bed and I thought, "I must get up. I have things to do." And then I would return to sleep.

In truth, I had nothing to do that could not wait another day. I had intended to go to the grocery store, inasmuch as I am almost completely out of comestibles. But I consoled myself by telling said self that the store will be running a sale tomorrow, as it always does on Thursdays, and so it would be better to wait another day to buy food there.

So I slept and I dreamed. Even when I awakened for a brief dose of mental self-flagellation for being such a lazy dawdler, I still could not rouse myself to get up and get going. Every time I woke briefly, sleep would reclaim me a half minute later. And each time I slept, I dreamed. It was the same long dream, interrupted by short interludes of guilt over being lazy.

I dreamed I got on a motor scooter (a scooter, not a proper bike like a Harley or Scout) and an anonymous friend helped me load it for a trip to visit another friend, someone I know in "real life." We loaded the scooter with all kinds of junk I would never need. I guess there is some kind of message in that part of the dream. We even strapped my living room sofa onto the poor scooter, and off I went with all my stuff. 

After hours on the road I reached my friend's domicile. No sooner than I had unpacked than I realized that I had to pack up again and return home at once. Which I did, except I had lost something important, and spent a lot of time looking for it without luck. By now it was raining, and that mean a long ride at night with all my belongings being rained on. I think a good psychiatrist could probably have gotten enough material from this one dream to write a book. He may even have named some kind of disorder after me.

But I was able to rouse myself at 4:45. I walked from my dim bedroom to the sunny living room. The sun was low in the west so that rays of sunlight shone under the awnings and through the Venetian blinds to cast horizontal stripes of light onto the far wall. As I sit at my computer table, bright stripes of light illuminate one shoulder of my t-shirt. The light is dimming — sunset is inching closer.

I still have to squeeze in my daily Spanish lesson and do yesterday's homework. And I have to find something to eat for supper. I have a can of Brunswick stew, which is healthy except for the huge dose of sodium it will deliver. But then, nothing's perfect.