I've been berating myself all day for being lazy. Somewhere along the way, Sunday as a day of rest became a concept foreign to me.
A list of what I've done today, in no particular order:
slept until 8:30 after not getting to bed until 12:30 because we picked Rowan up from a dance
baked sourdough bread and cinnamon rolls (my sponge is starting to have good flavor; Thane declared yesterday's pancakes well worth all my effort)
completed storage business paperwork
did laundry, including my sheets and comforter cover
cooked spaghetti sauce for use later this week (my favorite cook and husband is out of town)
cooked dinner for tonight and leftovers for lunch tomorrow
put a glass project in the kiln for its second firing
harangued Rowan into putting clean dishes away (the hardest task of the day)
I think that's everything of any consequence. I'm not quite sure where lazy came into play in all that. Oh wait, yes I do.
Despite having worked out 10 times in 6 days this past week, I felt lazy because I didn't get outside to ski or snowshoe like I'd planned this weekend. I'm not quite sure when my life became so driven by exercise guilt, but that does seem to be the case frequently. Oh, well, tomorrow's Monday: swimming at 6:45 and Tabata at 12:15. I think I can handle a little lazy today.