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Den of iniquity

It's Saturday and my husband Mike has declared all rights to the den. The den is a new room that, like my second novel, still requires a few special touches before anyone utters, "Finished." But, unlike my novel, the den's beauty is progressing--especially considering it began as a storage room.
We painted the den lovingly over the Fourth of July, scrubbed floors, and arranged furniture to have, finally, a beautiful nesting place.
I understand why Mike wants it: the view from three windows is compelling. Large oak trees surrounded by English ivy, potted mini-palms set into large black ceramic pots and the swoosh of a curved road leading to the most beautiful golf course in South Carolina evoke deep satisfaction. It's a quiet place to relax, watch The Open Championship, even read FIFTY SHADES OF GREY by E.L. James.
So what's my problem? It's Saturday and I don't have a moment to spare. A severe case of "The Shoulds" catapults me into the laundry room, sends me reeling toward the kitchen. Loading the dishwasher, I think I SHOULD also clean the storage shed, marinate a pork loin, make beds and mail a sympathy card. Not to mention adding those few special touches to the den and that haunting second novel.
There is no reason for angst over Mike's perch in the den, except I want to be there, too, sprawled across the sofa relishing FIFTY SHADES as he naps in his Lazy Boy, narration of The Open in the background. I prefer the comfort of Mike's calm spirit to the frenzy of my day.
I'm a fly that can't light, that can't sense the light in this mind-cage of a housework trap. Yet I know it's not the den that fosters iniquity; it's the frenzy. Saturdays are for writing and languishing, not for a barrage of tasks or guilt over their state of completion.
Now I recognize how essential this den of iniquity is. Maybe it's time to slow down and light there.

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