The middle of January is such a peaceful time - no more decorations and lights to put away, except for the one Santa I failed to notice until today. But I'm sure I'll put it out of sight in some forgettable place in the next few months.
By the middle of January, I cease to worry about glaciers shrinking and me spreading. I've answered cards that require answers, read in the papers about all the sales that are not-quite-tempting enough to get me downtown.
I can sit and read for an hour or two today because I actually have nothing I need to do.
ENGROSSING READS
My reading consists of a fascinating book about the 1918 flu epidemic.
I hadn't given much, if any, thought to the subject until the birds decided to share their flu with us. Since then, I have had a mad desire to learn about the whys and wherefores of the pandemic that my parents spoke of in such somber voices.
However, after being engrossed in the book for fully 10 minutes, I lay it aside and reach for the latest Dick Francis mystery, which is so near and so tempting on the coffee table.
I curl up on the sofa (one doesn't curl up with such erudite books as "The Great Influenza"; rather, one sits up in a straight-back chair with feet on the floor), and 45 minutes are gone before I know it.
I am so close to finding out who-done-it that I can't possibly stop reading now until the culprit is revealed on the next-to-last page.
IDLE HANDS...
January is the only time - except when I'm on vacation - that I am so daring as to read to the end of the book like that.
Now that is ridiculous. I could sit down and read any day I want to, and far into the night. I can't be fired because I don't have a job.
I don't need to pick up children or make cupcakes or drive a carload of althletes to a soccer match because the children are now driving their own children.
I don't have to plan dinner.
I don't have to do a thing.
How long does it take to believe that after you know it is true?
There is something, I think, deep in the American psyche that makes us feel worthless if we are not contributing to the gross national produce or volunteering at least two days a week or devoting our time to some other worthwhile activity.
We're taught at an early age that idle hands are the devil's workshop, and here we are decades later, still warding off the devil.
I love to read. I have always loved to read, ever since I was able to make out "See John run." I always figured there was a book waiting no matter what.
Catastrophe was nipping at my heels. Marriage and motherhood took precedence over sitting and reading for many years.
But time marched on.
FIRST THINGS FIRST
Recently, I came to the conclusion that I shall at long last rise above all admonitions, raised eyebrows and Type-A friends and just sit when the mood is upon me, enjoy the lake, watch the little people chase the ducks and the walkers walk.
Then I'll get my book and read just as long as I like.
But first I have to make my bed, do my washing, attempt again to get my desk in order and locate two bills there that are on the verge of being overdue, find my keys that have mysteriously disappeared, wrap a gift and mail it, go to the bank and stop at Bert's for a couple of essentials....
So I guess my reformation has to wait until this evening. But I just realized tonight is the one night I watch television.
One of these days, though, I really must do nothing.
Madison Park's Roberta Cole can be reached via e-mail at mptimes@ nwlink.com.
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