Being an adult is fantastic.
I mean, the bill paying and responsibility-taking is sort of meh, but the rest of it is pretty great.
Sundays now involve doing whatever the hell I want, on my own schedule, and to suit myself. Like, sleeping ’til 9, cuddling with my dogs, drinking coffee and eating fries for breakfast, and staying in my pajamas until I have to leave the house (sometimes never). Sometimes it means getting up, heading downtown for brunch with friends, and strolling in and out of shops and bars until it’s time to go home. Sometimes it means getting up and puttering around the house, walking the dogs, and cooking a ton.
Sundays then were waking up early to go to church and then Sunday school–someone else’s idea of a good use of time, not mine (#atheist)–and then coming home to do yard work and chores, and homework, and play outside if those other things were done. Someone else’s rules, priorities, goals. I guess that’s being a kid, right?
Um, nope. I’m good.
I’ll take the Sundays I choose, thanks.
And the best part of all of this is that I don’t see our Sunday priorities shifting (being child free-4-lyfe has its benefits). We can be 40, 50, 60, however old! and doing this if we want. Or we can be on a boat or the beach doing, again, whatever we want. It’s glorious.
Sunday is a great day to be alive.