Sunday Morning people

I like to think that inside, we really are the people we are in the morning.

Not the harried, rushing off to work, stumbling through the predawn darkness, frustrated by each delay, soon to be separated by Monday morning.

Instead, who we are one those long lazy Saturday or Sunday mornings.

I always imagine that inside he's the curious, careful, vulnerable creature he is before he's awake, shuffling through life barefoot, either wearing those ridiculous glasses or unable to see 3' in front of his face.

I like to think I'm the kind, patient snuggly, talkative, confused and silly, creature, who I am before I take my meds, fix my hair and apply however much war paint I've decided to put on before I face the world. My image of myself is perpetually barefoot and wearing a tee shirt which hangs to my knees.

In my mind, she's always got her hair in her face like that, that she peeks between the curls when you talk to her rather than pulling them aside. In this imaginary portrait she shuffles off to work in that robe, and those same worn slippers.

Weekend chores, an evening out or the Monday morning will come for us all, but until then I intend to enjoy the short time we get to spend together as Sunday morning people.