Every so often I read about other people’s snow days or their lazy afternoons of knitting or watching television or (gasp!) being sick in bed and I would envy them. I could barely remember a life when such afternoons were in my grasp, but if I did remember them, I cursed the girl I was for squandering the hours in wandering the house or eating cheese or watching Red Dwarf episodes. Free time, I thought to myself, is rarer than diamonds and three times as precious. Free time must be used wisely, I thought primly. Free time must be filled with productive and useful things that never otherwise get done. Nice things, to be sure, but things that you can look back at in the evening and say — I did that today.

In the past year, a few of those afternoons have made their way into my life again and I have welcomed them with joy. Oh, what I will do, I gloat, with five free hours. Paint three rooms and read the news and write a blog and write a novel and paint a masterpiece and plan a party and write ten emails and finish knitting a sweater and have a shower and do a hundred sit-ups and meditate for an hour and make a ragu and eat tofu for lunch and piece a quilt and clean the basement and wash the floor and call my mother and learn some French and practice the piano and go for a walk and take some photos and drink more coffee and make a friend and brush my hair and do all the laundry and rewire the kitchen light switches. And then I’ll think up more things.

What I actually DO do, however, is laze about. Mostly. I knit a bit and read a hundred blogs and perhaps put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher and call my sister and that’s about it.

Because otherwise, it’s not free time. How do you know you’re rich with time if you’re not squandering it like a millionaire?