Sacred

I used to have a Perfect Sunday.

I’d wake up around 8:00 without benefit of an alarm clock.  For years I’d worked a 9-5 job in the loop, and had finally acclimated to shifting my schedule to living by the sun instead of the moon.  With no meatspace social outlet (my only friends were on-line) I never had a reason to stay up or out late. 

The first order of the day was to brew my special Sunday Coffee:  HEB brand Texas Pecan, first gifted to me by my elder sister in a care package to celebrate my new apartment, moved into the same week I came to grad school.  It was not the same coffee I would drink during the rest of the week.  This coffee was special.  Tastier.  Drank for the sheer pleasure of the flavor instead of a simple morning jump start.

As that began to brew I’d begin making breakfast to extend and compliment the orally hedonistic experience initiated by the coffee.  Could be I’d make a batch of Kirby Lane Pancakes (again, made from the mix sent me by my sister).  Could be an omelet using a modified Mom’s scrambled egg recipe plus a compliment of red onion, bell peppers, and mushrooms.  Most frequently it was the Grilled Cheese Fried Egg Sandwich Om Nom Nom.  This was an egg, sunny side up, added to a slice or two of Swiss cheese, melty and dripping from between the buttery toast coated with just a hint of mayo inside.  Drippy, greasy, delicious.

Post breakfast would find me sitting at my computer, sipping coffee, sucking a cigarette, and checking the latest batch of Postsecrets.  My whole morning was soundtracked by soft jazz using iTunes Genius to create a playlist based upon Dave Brubeck’s Take Five, reminding me starkly of the kind of jazz my father would play during my childhood.

Coffee mug empty, cigarette stubbed to ash, and the last Sunday Secret read, I’d check the nearest movie theatre for earliest showtimes.  About 20 minutes north of me is a theater whose first showing of each movie each day is $5.50.  It’s a first run theatre, so it’s large and comfortable and not a bad evening spot (there’s even a piano bar in there, complete with a full kitchen and pool table).  But getting there early on a Sunday meant I got to watch whatever I wanted without a massive crowd to shuffle through taking up the best seats and talking through the movie.

It didn’t matter what I went to see.  Indeed, the point of going to the movies wasn’t ever about the movie itself so much as the event of going to the movies.  To sit in the dim and watch people file in.  To catch the teases of other movies that promised to excite, to inspire, to amuse.  To watch a story unfold before me and pay attention to the art of action, of direction, of design.  To sit through the end credits like my mom always used to do, listening to the final selections of the score.

I’m discovering a lot of my favorite things are those which bring me closer to family.  My parents in particular.

It used to be that I’d only go to the movies at night; they’d be the final event of the evening, frequently the last showing of the day.  Though it’s been many years since I had that particular habit, some part of me still expects to emerge from the darkness of a movie house to the darkness of the night, head home and straight to bed.  Thus I was always refreshed walking out of my Sunday Morning Movie; there was still so much daylight!

Next I’d hit the grocery store and pick up the perishables I’d diminished during the course of the previous week, then head home and immediately change into some exercise clothes before I’d lose momentum, grab my bicycle, and ride down Lakefront Trail to Navy Pier.  It’s an eleven mile trip from my home to the pier, and I’d ride both as a meditation and exercise routine, trying to race south as fast as my legs could take me.  I’d rest at the far end of the pier for ten minutes or so, taking in the boats and the skyline and watching tourists take pictures of one another.  Finally I’d walk down the pier counting all the different languages of conversation around me, listening to the family friendly tunes piped in over the speakers, the squawk of the seagulls, and smelling the pretzels and the roasted almonds and the biomass.  Finally I’d cap my ears with headphones once more and ride home to a Pavlovian induced exercise focus.

Still riding high from the elevated endorphins of exercise, I’d start cleaning my apartment.  This could take minutes or hours depending on whether I felt my place needed a spot check or a scour.  Stone Temple Pilots would press me while I began in the kitchen, cleaning from the countertops down to the floor.  A broom and a mop would take me from the kitchen into the dining room, then south to my bathroom and bedroom, the hallway, and finally the furniture and floor of my living room.  Somewhere in the middle of this I’d halt everything to take a smoke break once Sour Girl played, and I’d take a moment to sing along and reflect on the Greatest Hits of Ending Relationships.  Sometimes I’d listen to Foo Fighters instead and do the same thing during Stranger Things Have Happened.

My apartment finally cleaned and ready for company should I ever convince anyone to come over, I’d shower and put on my favorite In for the Night clothes; flannel pajama pants, a rather baggy long sleeved shirt that makes me feel like I’m seven wearing one of my dad’s shirts, and puffy slippers made to look like running shoes.

Finally I’d put on some headphones – it was getting late, after all, and I don’t want to use up too much goodwill with my neighbors – and crank the volume on the Foo Fighters’ Live at Wembley Stadium DVD from 2008.  I’d fill a 32 ounce cup with ice, Jim Beam (white label), and Coke and start cooking all the lunches I would need for the week.  This would involve the thawing/seasoning/searing of some chunks of chicken breast, mixing up some penne and devising a Sauce of the Week.  This was different each and every time as I was always too drunk to remember what I’d done in previous weeks, and it was almost always freaking fantastic.

Due to the drinking, the effects of Sunday didn’t end until sometime Monday morning.  I’d awake and try to reconstruct hazy memories of the previous night’s kitchen activities, frequently in a mild panic as to whether I’d left something uncooked sitting on the counter all night.  More often than not I was delighted to discover what a joy my drunken self took in housekeeping duties.  Nearly every Monday morning I’d awake to discover my kitchen cleaned, dishes washed and put away, lunches portioned out into individual containers in the fridge, and coffee brewed and awaiting my travel mug.

Then one day I found myself in the frequent company of a lovely lady who took unwitting ownership of my time and attention, and the events of my Sunday Ritual became a thing of memory.   I still do these things in fragments as the rest of my life has since been complimented with IRL friends and hobbies.  But lately I’m longing for a return to the things that used to matter.

Perhaps next week a variation of this will reemerge.