I have confessed previously my inability to have even the slightest and most hazy idea what day it is. On Wednesday evening–I knew it was Wednesday because the cleaning crew comes on Wednesday, one of the few markers of time in my world–a local news anchor said, at the end of the broadcast, “Thank goodness tomorrow is Friday. “
If you don’t think that messed me up! I searched for that morning’s newspaper and figured since the only one I could find was Wednesday’s, the next day would probably be Thursday. I checked the guide on the cable and dashed through programs for today and tomorrow until I got to SATURDAY–then counted back. Then I checked on the icons on the Mac screen–further proof the news anchor was wrong. It gave me a feeling of smug satisfaction.
Not that it really makes any difference. My daily schedule is get up, read the paper, write, swim, read a novel, watch the news with meals inserted at the right times. Add church on Sunday. My most important activity is–according to Maggie and Scooter–petting the cats and spoiling them but because that comes at whatever time they demand, it’s not written in the schedule.
I remember back–oh, so many years ago–when I was young and chanted, “TGIF”, looking ahead to a weekend stretching ahead empty and full of adventures. When I got older, the adventures didn’t hold as much appeal and, besides church, I spent six hours on Sundays grading papers and doing lesson plans. That made weekends not nearly as tantalizing.
All of which leads to these questions: Do you cherish your weekends? Why? What do you do–or don’t you do–that you look forward to?