Lazy Boy Weekend

You’ve heard of Hot Girl Summer. This is a lot like that, but instead of a girl being hot, it’s a boy being lazy. And instead of happening in the summer, it happens over a rainy weekend. So, fine, it’s not much like Hot Girl Summer. That was just a cheap hook. These words are worth what you paid for them, and may in fact leave you poorer, at least in spirit.

It started a lot like a regular lazy boy weekend. It was rainy and he had no shows to attend, perhaps the most regular sort of commitment in which he found himself wrapped up. Having a quiet weekend sounded good after having had lots of busy ones recently, directly challenging his lazy boy ways. The rain and the lack of structured plans would make for a sense of guilt free nesting at home, lounging on the couch, leisurely staying in bed for hours after waking up, maybe puttering around the kitchen if he was feeling so inspired.

It was, of course, a false sense of relaxation, as there was always plenty to do, but the thought of actually taking action led predictably to thoughts of not knowing where to start, and it was easier to just not think about any of it, even as the latent anxiety of knowing this was not the way toward where he wanted to be and who he wanted to be pressed back. Deferral is so much easier in the moment, and requires no planning at all.

He did have a pin stuck in the middle of the weekend, though: a casual agreement to leave his island hamlet and consort over seasonal intoxicants with others at a well loved establishment. Breaking the escape velocity of just staying home cozily requires effort, but it was the sort of effort he was often willing to make, living in solitude but being energized by genuine and refreshing social interaction with beautiful slices of humanity. He departed his island home and silently praised the inclement weather for the way it surely aided his efforts to find a parking spot near his destination. His feet and dog were already dampened after the two block walk.

The effort, and dampness, were well rewarded with a rejuvenating experience, made especially so on account of visiting with someone very special that he hadn’t seen in a very long time. His certainly-not-lazy dog leapt upon the table in a show of unbridled excitement that really only dogs can get away with. They spoke of beer and food and music and photography and ways to carry large quantities of soup. They drank ale and ate arepas and taqueños. They were soaked, but mostly with laughter and a sense of communion. His fulfillment revealed itself in a quiet smile. After hours in a makeshift sheltered outdoor space, he departed unconcerned with his cold hands, content to appreciate the way the world unfolds when you’re not actively trying to nudge it in any given direction. The dog was absolutely soaked, though.

He returned to form the next day, expecting to spend the day at home, but ultimately doing the needful, patting himself on the back for having the wherewithal to go get food for his dog, whose supply had been exhausted, and stopping by the seafood shop for a specialty ingredient to make himself a fanciful breakfast. In a state of half consciousness, between spells of dozing off on the couch, bathed in the light of Red Zone, he considered the work needing to be done given recently set intentions, and made a list. There was a lot to do, but with commitments and time frames, it felt less optional but also more approachable, framed by both anxiety and anticipation. It was the kind of purpose that he needed to push himself forward. One way or another, it would all be okay, he knew, even if it all didn’t end up looking like what he imagined. It never did anyway.