Earlier in the week, I gave myself permission to do whatever I liked. This is advice I frequently dole out to friends but rarely follow myself. I was free to squander time without paying heed to that mean inner voice which is poised and ready at any time of day or (especially) night to remind me that I should be more productive.
Or more attractive. Or more physically fit. Or more assertive. Or more of a risk taker, depending on the day.
But on this day, I allowed myself some simple, spontaneous “sparkles” one after another – fun, random things that seem too frivolous to happen regularly but really, why not? And we’re not talking white water rafting here or jumping out of a plane.
Just tiny pops of languid reading and relaxing.
I always enjoy my house being clean but I’ve never been able to become excited about the process or to schedule reminders connected to doing certain things. (And I have known these people – though not well, perhaps tellingly.) They have laminated sheets and clipboards; Sunday morning stove scrub-downs and allotted days for vacuuming and laundry. I do not aspire to be part of this group.