Every Saturday morning, I have all these grandiose plans of a jammed-packed day filled with crossing off all the activities that I can’t do during the work week: making brunch (or meeting up with friends for brunch), trekking down to Findlay Market, working out in a park, strolling through a museum art exhibit, thrift shopping, scenic car rides to nowhere in particular, enjoying the unseasonably gorgeous weather, et cetera, et cetera…
And while I manage to cross off making brunch, all I want to do afterwards, is curl up on the couch, still in my PJs, catch up on my TV shows, movies and the sleep that I lost during the past five days.
I’ve lost many Saturday morning this way and I often feel guilty about it, especially when I see all my friends’ updates and check-ins of all their Saturday activities around town.
But just as I’m about to get my lazy ass off the couch, a scenario like this unfolds…
Fiona jumps onto either my chest or the couch and wants to play…
… and before I even know what happened, my stomach hurts from laughing so much at her crazy antics and facial expressions, and literally, hours have gone by.
And that’s when I don’t feel guilty about not leaving the house, since I was part of Fiona’s grandiose Saturday’s plans:
Catching up on play time that she wasn’t able to have with me the past five days.
Because if I had left the house, I would’ve missed all this craziness that I like to refer to as my “fur therapy.”
This is what Saturday mornings are all about for me, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.