I woke early on Saturday as the first fat flakes of snow fell past the bedroom window. The snow stuck fast to the sidewalks and tree branches, settling for the first time this winter. I had to venture out in the pale light to fetch milk from the convenience store to make coffee, my feet warm in new snow boots crunching through fresh ice and a fine layer of snow.
I was supposed to buy flowers, as directed by the first weekend assignment in the Apartment Therapy January Cure. I didn’t, perhaps I really should have, but I did spend most of the weekend scrubbing the hardwood floors so I feel as though I’m on track. Definitely a good way to begin the year.
Saturday marked our eighth wedding anniversary, and we didn’t do overtly special. In truth, I’ve noticed as I get older that I’m starting to resent the need for special things or to have a special day on days like anniversaries, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, and my birthday. It almost feels like too much pressure, that I’m supposed to feel a certain way and the entire day will be irrevocably ruined if one little thing isn’t how it is supposed to be.
On those special occasions I’d much rather just have a day like any other. We did have a perfect and normal weekend, one that involved housework, playing games, teasing one another, chasing the cat, reading books, throwing snowballs, eating takeout, baking cookies, watching movies, and spending time with the two people I love most in the world.