Midsummer lament

The time has come to admit that, despite the stellar example set by Mr. James every second of every day, when it comes to living more in the moment, I may be uneducable.

For proof, I need look no further than this week.

This is the week of the year's longest days. Every morning since Dec. 21, I've checked the sunrise and sunset times in the newspaper, seeking evidence of each new sliver of daylight. During those cold days, I leave for work and return home in the dark; I must take it on faith that the sun actually makes an appearance even if I can't see it from my office.

By my husband's birthday in late January, we've gained a half hour and are starting to gain speed. By my birthday six weeks later, it's another whole hour. By April, the light is literally at the end of the tunnel, everyone's mood improves and I eagerly anticipate the long days of June when light begins to break even as I leave for the gym at 5:30 a.m.

This is the week I've been waiting for, for six whole months.

So am I happy? Am I enjoying these glorious 14 hours and 55 minutes of daylight?

Of course not. I'm lamenting the downward slide that begins at the end of this week.

Mr. James suffers no such perverse thought processes. He might notice he gets longer walks when it's warm and light and fewer when it's cold and dark, but I doubt it. To him, every day is a new adventure, an opportunity to eat and sniff and demand a good belly-scratching. It's clearly a path to happiness for him and my loss that I can't seem to follow suit.

But I'll keep trying.