confessions of a perceived party animal

One of the first times I recall being truly, deeply contented: I'm about 9 or 10 years old. Christmas music is playing in my house. My mom is downstairs making dinner and I'm in my upstairs bedroom, working at my little desk. I'm straightening things, arranging things, looking at my books. The sun has just gone down, so I turn on another lamp. I love my books, my little space, the music, the warm light. My mom calls me to come down to eat. I wish I could just stay up in my room a while more.

I was thinking of this recently because although I do love to go to concerts, movies, museums, ballgames and big cities, I adore Saturday mornings at home. Each week [that I'm in town] I change the sheets on my bed, do laundry, shuffle many piles of paper, rearrange the unwieldy stack of reading material on the nightstand, and generally hang out in my space while I listen to my NPR shows. I wish that time of the week could go on and on, and that there were no such thing as errands.