My mattress is 15 inches thick. My blankets are Egyptian cotton. The blinds on my window are dark bamboo and my walls are burnt orange. I have two tapestries: one is dyed indigo and the other is a mud cloth. Both were handmade in Mali. (Both are Ilana's but I'm babysitting them.) I sleep in the Astoria version of a Ghanaian paradise and I set it up this way for one reason: Saturdays.
Before I describe the grace and beauty, the ballet suite, the delicate creme brulee that is my Saturday, I should run through the other days of the week. Monday I wake up before my alarm, make lunch and ride my bike to work. Tuesday I wake up with my alarm, make lunch and walk to work (it rains). Wednesday I wake up with two hits of the snooze button (rehearsal that night before) and then climb sorely on a bike with a half-assed lunch. Thursday I wake up with my alarm, feeling refreshed. I pedal hard to work and hard home and then have a hard rehearsal. Friday I wake up after pounding the snooze for almost an hour and curse the day God invented time. I bike to work and curse the day God invented other people. I sit down at my desk and curse the day God invented desks.
And then Saturday. Sweet Saturday. Maybe I play a gig tonight. Maybe a movie. It's like the millisecond after making love when every perfect possibility is within arms reach.
On Saturday, I wake up at 9:30. The sun stirring the walls lights my room like the inside of a womb. For the next half hour, I lay in bed turning thoughts over in my brain: a grocery list, a drum fill, an unwritten song, a bizarre sexual position, whatever. Then I fall back to sleep for an hour. When I wake up the second time, my room is a little brighter but no less comforting. I grab my iPhone from the couch next to my bed, check my email and the New York Times. Not really, though. You can't take information seriously when you're lying naked between Egyptian cotton and 15 inches of Sweden's finest engineering.
After getting out of bed, I Skype (video-phone for those born before 1984) my girlfriend. I make sure I do this before putting on any clothes just in case she's studying in the library. A wise man once told me, "Never pass up the opportunity to be naked in public - keeps you humble." Words to live by.
Boxers, coffee, (still chatting with the girlfriend as I've now covered myself). A pair of jeans, a phone call to my mother, a walk around the living room a few times. Socks, eggs & bacon, an episode of (insert favorite British television show here. This week for me, it's Spaced). Work for the band on my computer, clear out my inbox. Practice the drums and now it's time to go out because it's Saturday night.
In one half-day, an entire week of work, rehearsal, cycling, filing, phoning, struggling can be turned to nothing but dust and memories.
That sounds like a great Saturday. After a week of routine, routine that gets irritating as the week passes, sometimes it's best to just do nothing, and this includes putting on clothes. It's always a great feeling when your Saturday is comprised of slowly dressing yourself, only to be ready to start your day at nightfall. Cheers man!
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