I'm on Weekend Time

During the workweek I almost never know what day it is. I never know what month it is, either. If I write a check I always start out dating it for April.

Or December. It takes a second for me to think through what the actual date might be. Blotter-size desk calendars, heavily detailed with handwritten notations, are my friends. I don't think that's a failure of my synapses. I think it is that my life changes not at all, day after day, week after week, month after month.

Most of the time I like it that way. Most mornings as I dig out my car and office keys and throw my purse strap onto my shoulder, I bid farewell to the dogs, "Mommy's going to work now. As always." It does seem as if I'm always going to work.

But oh! how I love the arrivals home every afternoon, and the Friday night feeling of an endless weekend. It's a mini-version of eight-year-old me when school let out for the infinite stretch of sunny summer days. From 4:30pm on Fridays until 10:00pm on Sundays, I am acutely aware of the exact location of my existence in my Weekend Time. Every free hour is a vacation, to be filled with as much or (usually) as little as possible. I like the Saturday routine of bedchanging, and laundry-doing, and grocery shopping, followed by reading and napping.

Today I have a 10:45 appointment for a haircut. My hair is short, and a basic fluff style. Today I'm not sure I have enough hair to justify giving up forty-five minutes of my time for that. But you know how it goes: Today the hair is just fine and in two days I would be lamenting my having skipped the haircut.

That obligation will get me out of the house and once I'm on the road I'll buy the glue I need to hem the floorcloth I made last weekend.

That floorcloth class was a tough thing. Not the class itself, but the rousing myself to use not including travel time! four hours of my Sunday for something other than being At Home. I had fun once I got under way, and I'm glad my friend BonBon did not allow me a single moment of "Oh . . . I don't know..." Now I have the finishing part of the floorcloth to do, and I'd better start today or it will remain draped over the back of that Windsor chair "drying" for the rest of my life.

I wonder what genetic difference exists between me and women who exclaim with joy about getting out of the house: "Oh I love taking classes. It gets me out of the house!" What world do those women live in that they have the psychic necessity to be busy and doing all the time? I think (flattering myself) that I take in a lot of sensory input all the time. I don't need the distraction of instruction or new experiences to feel my life.

Less flattering is the notion that I really can't process a lot of new stuff in short periods of time. Grabbing hold of today's date is tough enough for me.