Sunday In My Pajamas

It is now 9:40am on a Sunday morning.  I’m sitting in the living room, still in my pajamas because I refuse to get showered and dressed before 10am on Sundays.

There is only one closed kitchen door between me and two strange men painting my kitchen.  Other than one sleeping daughter upstairs, I am alone.

They sing in weird voices and one of their paint rollers has an annoying, repetitive squeak.  My cat is as equally on guard as I am.  She’s under the table staring towards the kitchen, on high alert.  Don’t you dare come through that door, she’s thinking.  Me too.  I’m in my pajamas.  I want my Sunday morning to myself.  One of them has started whistling.  They are equally as good at whistling as they are at singing. I realize that they have brought in a radio tuned to some kind of rock station, which explains the singing.

I have run out of coffee.

It is now 9:50am.  I only have to hold out for ten more minutes in order to achieve my goal of not getting dressed before 10am.  I just heard the back kitchen door close.  Are they gone?  Ah, nope. More whistling.  I want to take a peek at what the new paint looks like.  I hear the door close again and it becomes silent once more.  I walk gingerly up to the one door between myself and the men in the kitchen.  As I pass the dining room window, I see one of the painters outside, checking his iPhone. Maybe they are both outside. The cat cautiously approaches the door with me.  Do I dare?

I put my hand on the knob, slowly turn it, and open the door a crack.  And a bit more.

I take a peek.

Wow…it looks fabulous!

10:05am.  Time to shower.

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