So, when Friday night rolled around, I didn't have any event to get ready for, nor any guests requiring my attention.
|Ahhh English football. The pretty green grass and players faking injuries sure|
lowers this spectator's blood pressure and makes for a relaxing morning.
Friday night commenced with Mrs. Blackwell grabbing the boy, then me going out after work and grabbing a beer, then another, then another. It was ultimately an evening of satisfying overindulgence which concluded with me being asleep with a stomach full of wings and beer at 9:30. (Mrs. Blackwell was super impressed.)
Needing to redeem myself, I woke up early Saturday morning, albeit involuntarily. Since we had the boy, I'm completely unable to sleep in. If I make it to 7 a.m. I'm fortunate and that's even after a night of beer tasting.
Fortunately, my body cooperated and I felt better than I usually would have. With further sleeping not an option, I slipped quietly out of our room where Mrs. Blackwell hibernated, I crept past the boy's room (not before noticing how he snores like an old man) and silently glided downstairs.
Once there, I tuned the TV to British Football (it's not that I love soccer but, unlike North American sports, there's little to no yelling by the commentators. There's lots of green grass to look at and occasionally, it's punctuated by spectacular feats of athleticism.)
So, while the soccer hummed in the background I commenced with the preparation of a big breakfast. Making breakfast is one of those household tasks I genuinely enjoy. Perhaps it's the fact that I get to enjoy the silence of the early morning or, maybe it's the bacon, who knows?
All of the above is, essentially, the anatomy of my perfect Saturday morning. I'm happy that this fact wasn't lost on me at that moment.
|A traditional English breakfast. Not known for lowering blood|
pressure no matter if lovely green grass accompanies it.
In the midst of my laconic march toward readying the greatest breakfast man hath ever known, it occurred to me just how few and far between these moments have become.
I enjoy my family and my friends, but I also enjoy my alone time. So, I took a page out of Mrs. Blackwell's playbook, slowed down even further and sought to savor my morning.
Moving about in a tidy kitchen, with a full fridge, while my TV beamed pleasing live images from across the ocean, it occurred to me that life was pretty darn good.
When you're prone to cynicism as a good many of us are, I suppose taking the time to enjoy the simple things takes on particular importance. That's doubly so if you're someone who also enjoys occasional solitude.
After a while, the coffee was up, the eggs were done, the mushrooms and onions were sauteed, the sweet potato fries were ready to go. The perfect morning was off and running.
Now all I needed, was some company. Solitude after all, has its limitations.