Puzzling Sunday: Of Games and Guilt

Yesterday was one of those grey March days that make getting out of bed really hard. There is still frost in the morning air. Well, I assumed so - I didn't plan to go out there to check for myself. Snow and ice still cling to the edges of everything. The sky seemed to press down on me. There is so much to do with a whole Sunday, but yesterday I couldn't muster the energy.


There wasn't much movement yesterday morning. Though it was Sunday, my hardworking husband went into work. Our girls were sleeping. I stayed in bed to read the paper, then thought about doing a puzzle - mental aerobics, I told myself. I did the Super Quiz, then the Jumble, then the daily crossword. I was feeling pretty limber at this point. My little one joined me in bed. "Can we do this one?" she said, spying the New York Times Sunday crossword. We've attempted these from time to time together. The answers are provided on Sunday, and frankly, we need the help. I was impressed by how many my girl got on her own. We worked on it until noon.


After we ate, the little one suggested we play a game. We settled on Battleship. I have fond memories of playing this game with my husband on tropical vacations, while it was raining sideways, and there was nothing else to do but drink. The game with my daughter was long, intense and very close. We used all of our 'miss' white pegs, and had to be creative to continue. I was completely engrossed in that game. By the time we finished it was time to plan dinner. I didn't want to, however, so I contacted some friends to join us for a charcuterie and wine afternoon. They were unavailable, sadly, leaving my husband and I to deal with their share.


What sort of Sunday was this? A fine one, I'd say. Except for roasting some excellent nuts for our charcuterie tray, and driving my oldest to work, I did absolutely nothing. Surprisingly, the world kept turning and nobody died. Huh, I thought. A gal might want to do this more often.


There is an old saying: Men feel guilty about what they do; women feel guilty about what they don't do. Speaking to many generations of women about this, I would say that it mostly holds true. On a typical weekend, you don't see many gals watching sports or golfing for five hours at a time. Neither do you see many fellows doing laundry, housework or grocery shopping. Though we do help each other in many areas, especially cooking, I do most of the cleaning, laundry and shopping; my husband watches all of the sports.

I wondered why I didn't feel guilty this Sunday. I have a list a mile long of things to tackle. I chose to focus on what I had accomplished: my taxes were done. That was all I could come up with, but still, it was something. Laundry day isn't until tomorrow, that pile of stuff in my den isn't going anywhere. Maybe it's a factor of my age. I don't think I have anything to prove anymore. I know how to work hard and get things done. It's been brought to my attention that I find lack of busy-ness in others intolerable. It's true. I have to learn how to respect that we all have different time tables; we all work differently. The end result is the important thing. Maybe I'm getting it. Probably not. I think I just had a grey, lazy Sunday that was perfectly lovely.

Now if you'll excuse me, that laundry isn't going to do itself.

A few notes:

- My charming husband does his own gym laundry, even though I insist it's more efficient to do it all at once. I appreciate that he tries to spare me from that which might make me reconsider my marriage vows.

- Yesterday was the first time I ever won in Battleship against my youngest daughter. I have only recently begun to win when we play crib. I attribute this to mental aerobics and hereby commit to doing at least one puzzle a day.

- The roasted nuts recipe is from a my fabulous friend, Deborah Anzinger, author of 'Cook!' available at Chapters. Her new book 'Entertain!' will be available soon.

- I did eventually feed my children, with perogies I made BY HAND, with a fine group of women - Amish style (except for the wine).