Saturday Mornings

I wake up.  Not to an alarm.  Not to any pressing engagements.  I wake up when my body is ready.  Or not.  In that moment, when you first open your eyes and realize that there's absolutely nothing stopping you from closing them again, that moment is bliss.

Saturday mornings are the crown prince of arbitrary time divisions.  Friday nights are a very close second, like the bastard brother of Saturday mornings, tainted only by the fact that they follow directly after a full work day.  And I haven't experienced this yet, but I suspect the King of waking daily segments would be the first Monday morning after retirement.  That is the Emperor of Mornings, a messiah to your misspent work hours.  I would imagine.

For now I'm happy with Saturday mornings.  It's not like the other six are all that bad.  Sunday is much like Saturday, although with a bitter punch line.  And Monday through Friday, while bothersome, have their charms.  Ultimately, I think all six of them exist as a foil for Saturday morning.  That moment, lying in my bed, relishing your freedom, is made possible only by contrast.

Only three more days to go.