Saturday started with one of those breakdowns we all have about not having anything to wear (weight gain coupled with summer dresses that fit you perfectly the year before is enough to set anyone off). No brunch, but instead, pestering Miguel to get off his computer and stop work because it didn’t align with my idea of a perfect Saturday. We bickered about it on the way to the garden centre (which turned out to be more of an agonising hobble than a stroll as my feet blistered and the sun was just a few shades too hot for this Brit).
By the time we’d got there, I realised I was in no mood to enquire about the best hardy plants for full-sunshine that can be grown in a pot and that I may or may not kill by the end of the summer. We walked around the rows of perennials feeling totally clueless as to what we needed, before deciding today probably wasn’t the day to be hauling giant terracotta pots around. Instead we went home empty-handed to watch the football. Portugal got kicked out of the World Cup. Great.
This isn’t a thinly veiled attempt at trying to come across as relatable – none of these are real problems. My blisters are gone and my balcony can wait another weekend. But as I’d intended to blog about my day, I thought I might as well tell you how it went.
I don’t know if you also know the feeling I’m attempting to describe, but sometimes I build up my weekends so much that they are bound to disappoint. The sunshine is definitely a contributing factor – every moment stuck indoors feels like a waste. The thought of another weekend passing me by where I don’t do those things that you ‘should’ do in summer (visions of swimming, picnics and country walks in my head) makes me feel anxious.
TLDR? I need to learn to breaaaaathe and let go.