I was feeling punk last Sunday, just cresting the peak of a January cold. Sick enough to be miserable, but not sick enough to admit to being so.
Wild card weekend in the NFL meant there was no football worth watching on TV. I was weary and uncomfortable and irascible and just couldn’t figure out where to put myself. I couldn’t get comfortable on the living room couch. We have no comfortable chairs in our house. The idea of going to bed in our bedroom seemed too much like admitting that I really was sick. So what was I to do?
The guest room.
It stands apart from the general traffic and bustle of our house in a kind of sub-space isolation. It’s a simple room, neatly arranged with a tidy little bed and an old fashioned writer’s desk. Quiet and dim, uncluttered and neatly appointed, it's a kind of peaceful in-home hotel room retreat.
I’m pretty sure there are few things better than an impromptu Sunday afternoon guest room nap. Door closed, shades pulled, asleep on top of the bed spread, covered by a light blanket, removed from the world for a time.
A guest room nap (GRN). I can't wait for my next one.
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