This was a four-day weekend, and it went by, as they say, in a flash. Too fast, with entirely too much to do, but doing so little. One of those non-productive busy sets of days that everyone needs, once in a while. I accomplished nothing but lounging, and finished nothing but a series of naps, undertook only laziness, and achieved only happiness.
It was a four-day weekend, and that’s what you’re supposed to do! It wasn’t what I originally intended to do. I’ve gotten busy again, with the freelancing, and have many, many things on my very high-piled plate, which is more like a platter. There are deadlines looming and people emailing asking about things like ETAs and invoices and if I can take on this thing and if I can add these nine things to that thing I’ve already taken on. There is an abundance of things to do, that must be done, that should have been done yesterday but can wait until say, ten minutes ago.
But it was a four-day weekend, and the allure of setting aside four whole
days with the express purpose of not doing anything at all, the actual choosing to say hello, I am going to take a vacation (rather than
falling mindlessly into a semi-somnambulist state of mind as sometimes
happens to me) was too exciting and sweet and sounded entirely too
It is not like I needed this, this four-day weekend. I did not
require a vacation, without which I would surely expire from overwork
and underpay. It is not as if I have been slaving away non-stop under
the red-rimmed eye of a cruel and punishing dictator with a very sharp
whip and a penchant for punishingly blunt noogies. I am weak, and the
idea of sleeping in, snuggling, drifting off while pans banged
around in the kitchen, spooning up Cream of Wheat in bed with the dogs
somehow sounded so much more lovely than editing a book about AutoCAD.
I am weak, and curling up on the couch to watch HBO movies sounded like
a much better deal than writing an article about developments in human
resources. Heading to the grocery store for pie and hot dogs and
sauerkraut and corn on the cob, herding the animals away from the grill
and the stray cat who loves nothing more in the world than to tease
them, eating perfect hamburgers until dark, fireworks overhead
exploding as we walked to the movie theater, popcorn with extra butter
and an icy cold fountain soda, a movie that shouldn’t have been
romantic but was, anyway, a perfectly cool room and perfectly cool
sheets and a perfectly warm body, it all, somehow, trumped paying work.
I can’t explain it either.
I suppose I could have caught up the next day, but I slept in, and
then my best friend came to town, and we spent the weekend talking
about writing as we drove around town in my fancy upgraded rental (from
a Hyundai to a Chrysler is a dizzying ascent) and got coffee and looked
at books and ate pancakes and talked more about writing and drove around
some more and he was patient as I pointed out the mountains and the
houses and the trees and showed him my new street and my new coffee
shop and my whole new life and he was suitably impressed and it is good
to hang out, because he is comfortable and we have known each other for
18 years, and I would rather lean back and enjoy that, than worry about
It was a four-day weekend, and I took every one of those days, and then
some. But now, I have so many deadlines, and it is Monday, and they
have all lined up outside my bedroom door. I slept in, one more time,
forgetting, somehow, that life had to start up again and every day
cannot be a holiday.