conquered.

I don't typically dread Sunday evenings. Largely due in part by the fact that embracing Monday mornings has become more a pleasure, actually, than a chore. Gasp if you will, but surprisingly I've started to enhance my weeks recently with things I can't seem to get enough of- all of which really mirrors the consistency of my weekends, just in extended form.

I fill my days with vivacious (immensely humorous, even) kids, my afternoons with 2-hour marathons of my husband's least favorite show (Law & Order, of any variety) without remorse, and my evenings with family dinners, incessant face time with people I can't live without, or in the presence of the man, whether it be on the couch engrossed in whatever's plastered on our beautifully high-definitioned plasma or on opposite ends of our nest with his nightly Halo battle cries lulling these eyes to sleep. I read. I relax. I clean. I nest. I entertain the thought of finally scrapbooking our wedding proofs. I like my weeks. I've learned it makes Sunday evenings not so unbearable.

This Sunday evening, however, I'm not as enthused to be greeted by tomorrow morning. My weekends, of which I adamantly adore, are still typically predictable. I like spice. New things. Altogether, out of the ordinary. The stuff spectacular weekends are made of. Genuinely, my weekend screamed spectacular. My mother finds it laughable, but camping was ideal. Truly. This season grows on me the older I get, so spending the better part of my weekend in the open air made my heart grow even fonder. The weather was perfect. Conversation, perfect. Surroundings, perfect. People, perfect. Hanging Rock, despite it's perilous terrain, was worth the heavy panting, exhaustion, and intensely sore thighs. You can't pay for views like these.


In the aftermath of this weekend, it goes without saying that aiming high for the week to come would be nothing short of entirely advisable. And precisely what this lady intends to do.