There is a fabulous catch 22 when it comes to weekends. All week long, I think forward to the freedom of the weekend. I delve into a daily routine that rarely breaks form -- a daily photocopy that auto-repeats first thing in the morning as I resist the sound of my alarm.
Contrary to my younger stance on "the daily grind," it's not all bad. There's something satisfying, even fulfilling, about completing the day's tasks in a predictable and measured manner. If, by the end of the day, I can say that I've worked an honest day, pushed myself through a sweaty workout, and contributed to my blog, it's an accomplishment.
Still, yet, there is a subtle longing that strings like a low frequency throughout the week. It's the potential of two days routine-free that rests in my subconscious, flickering now and then to remind me that it will, indeed, come.
Saturday at 4:00, I bound out in the wild, wide open world, heart aflutter and feeling as though I dropped the heavy load of the week behind me, and I never intend to clean up the pieces that lay on the ground as I glide into sweet freedom. I might indulge in a quick workout to start things off right. All the while, though, I remind myself that the freedom is still ready for the taking, sitting sweetly available to me like a fresh bag of sea salt & vinegar potato chips. When the bag is opened, the sweetest feeling rushes over me until I sit, empty bag in hand, wondering just how much all that really meant to me.
So here, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, I do not feel liberated. I do not feel queasy with excitement or floored by potential. Instead, it looms over me, teasing. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy. But maybe that's the point. It's not another day to whip myself into a tizzy, but a time to just sip my coffee, and still, at 12:51 in the afternoon, have no plans for the day that lies ahead.
