The Disappearing Sabbath

Tonight, walking -shivering, gloveless in 17* windchill- up Half Street from Navy Yard (which was decorated with Christmas lights??), I decided I'd like to shrug off the 7-day week when I grow up. Because my ideal week would need 9 days. And there would be no such nonsense as "THE WEEKEND!". All days would be created equal. This week would go like so:

Days 1-4: The beginning would be all thinking in rooms and reading every sort of book and writing personal essays and lyric poems and editing original manuscripts and learning French and discussing theories+works and film-watching sans popcorn. Mental exercise. Cerebral procreation. Intellectual intercourse.

Days 5-7: The antidote to all this sinking in thinking would be hands-dirty creativity. One might cook a sixteen-course meal for two dozen of one's closest friends. Decoupage a chest or drawers. Henna one's feet. Trim the Magnolia tree. Photograph fruit. There should be at least 2 completed creative acts by sundown on Day 7 to keep things moving.

Day 8: Brain and soul cared for - time to nourish the body. Adventure and exercise - all the fun kinds of calorie burning. A dance class after morning yoga, followed by a hike through the woods which leads to a waterfall perfect for swimming laps under. After that a hot oil massage might be nice with some green tea and wheatgrass. Bulgur and carrot salad even. Deep breathing would be the constant refrain of the day.

Day 9: This day is mysteriously not experienced, though it does occur in its entirety on a "weekly" basis. It's compressed into a time warp that is unnoticeable to the human sense of time. I have yet to discover the purpose of this odd 24 hour period of time, but I am under the impression that I never will.

Then we start all over again!