I’m not in bed yet.
I feel like the kid who waits next to the door to hear their parents complete their night rituals and go to sleep so I can sneak out my flashlight and read. Or watch TV. I used to turn my TV down really low and watch Nick-at-Nite reruns of Mr. Ed and the Mary Tyler Moore Show.
Kind of G rated compared to what kids do today. Kind of G rated compared to what kids my age used to do. But what do you get when you’re raised by someone who was in their fifties when you were born? You tend to adopt their ideas of rebellion. Just so happens that my grandmother thought that talking horses were the devil.
That, my friend, is a nature-versus-nurture debate that I will leave for another night.
So why the celebrations? Normally, I would be Twittering/MySpacing/Facebooking about the horrors that are Sunday nights. The ironing of the work shirt, the starching of the khakis, the preparations of the lunch box, and the broadcasting of your sincere discontent to everyone who decides to log into a social networking site.
My routine is peacefully at rest for the moment. No, I haven’t been let go (yet). But I did get time off until the 4th of January.