If you’re a lazy workaholic like me, today was probably the most you can expect from a Sunday. The pace was slow enough, but I still got done what I needed to (but only what I absolutely needed to). I spent the morning watching the race, and I spent the afternoon doing those pesky spreadsheets while watching the Giants beat the Mets.

And I did my twelve minutes in the yard this morning. That part probably could have gone better, but I was unexpectedly let down by my legs. I expect my heart to pound and my breathing to become labored, but I didn’t think my legs would quit on me after only twelve minutes. Even so, nearly half the yard has now had the once-over with the mower since I got it two months ago. I’m getting there.

Then tonight, after the work was done and once it was clear the Giants were going nowhere in the second game, I finished the book I never seem to have time to read during the week. I wasn’t quite done when darkness fell, so I turned on the reading lamp and kept going. It’s that rush of the last hundred pages that makes all the time you’ve invested pay off. I couldn’t stop reading, and I didn’t want it to end.

But it did end (at 9:11 pm, kind of a twisted numerology, considering most of the book is set in Afghanistan). That’s when I got around to fixing myself something to eat and reminding myself that tomorrow is nothing more than another Monday. Somehow remembering that made this Sunday even sweeter.

Some people undoubtedly went skydiving today, while others went to the ballet. I’m sure all of those people thought they had a good Sunday, too. I’m not trying to say my way is better, but I’m pretty sure it’s better for me.