Wham! Through a confluence of events outside of our control, the plans that my husband and I had constructed over a three-day spring weekend disappeared. Overnight. Three whole days. That’s a major haul of time.

We told ourselves not to panic. What should we do? What projects could we take on? Maybe this was the time to clean out our garage? Polish our wood floors? Volunteer? Drum up some work in the office? We had one-hundred ideas.

Finally, I said it out loud. “Maybe we could just…I don’t know…relax?”

Silence.

We thought about this radical plan. My husband and I, products of Midwestern Greatest Generation parents, were given the simple message that productivity is good (and should be engaged in during all waking hours); non-productivity is bad (and should be avoided during all waking hours). Relaxing obviously fell in the non-productive category.

“I could see relaxing for maybe one day,” he finally said. “But three days?”

I was warming to the plan. “Might be interesting.”

“OK,” he said. “I like interesting. But what would we actually do?”

Silence.

I had no idea. He had no idea. We were like swamp people lost in the city.

“Probably TV is involved,” I said.

He nodded, “and food.”

Things were taking shape. We had a TV and we had food in the freezer. We could do this.

The plan was hatched. We would stay home for three days, invent whole meals from the freezer, and throw ourselves into the binge watching culture. We picked two series: Game of Thrones (starting at Season 1) and Jane the Virgin (also starting at Season 1). Wine would be allowed but not computer or phone use unless there was an emergency.

We watched for hours on end until our legs fell asleep. We nervously snacked and drank and gasped and covered our eyes until we finally stumbled to bed. The first night, I dreamt of sweet Jane beheaded by an evil knight with a baby dragon on his shoulder. The second night, the peasants from Winterfell were uneasy guests at the Marbella in South Beach. Worlds and eras collided. Our anxiety increased. It seemed we were failing at relaxing.

Until the third and final day. Unwashed yet determined, we took our places on the couch. We were fully in each series by now, the characters as familiar to us as family members. We yelled at the screen, laughed, screamed, took bets on outcomes, bounced in excitement and fear, and before we knew it, our day was over.

“Tomorrow is Monday,” he said, looking shocked at the reality fast approaching.

“Hard to believe.” I agreed.

“We did nothing for three days but watch TV.”

“Can you believe it?” I laughed.

“I can’t wait to get back to work.” His face was serious as he took my hand. “But you’ll always be my queen.”

I adopted Jane’s wide-eyed grin. “Well, that’s a big whew!”

After all, in the words of the American writer and philosopher, Elbert Hubbard: The man (or woman) who doesn’t relax and hoot a few hoots voluntarily, now and then, is in great danger of hooting hoots and standing on his head for the edification of the pathologist and trained nurse, a little later on.