I love weekends for the most part. It's time that I don't have to be at the office by 7:30AM and I get to work from the laptop in my room. This weekend I have worked quite a bit on work stuff, very little except preparing meals on house stuff and taken a nap.
Last weekend I did some research on how to request advanced reader copies of books so I could read new stuff and write reviews. I requested several books and actually got one shipped to me late this week, so I wanted to spend the weekend reading that so I could go ahead and write my review. No such luck. Every time I get settled in to read, I fall asleep. So yesterday I took a nap - in honor of the Day of Debauchery and Gluttony, and basically ignored the housework. Good stuff.
Weekends are also symbolic for me. They are two days into which I feel compelled to cram seven days of living. There is pressure - internalized, of course - to make those two days "count," when the rest of the week I am at the beck/call/whim of other people's desires and incompetence. They are two days where I try not to simmer and smolder with anger over other people's whims, desires and incompetence. They are two days where I try not to bemoan and catastrophize that I am on call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The symbolism comes in when I think - "these are the two days I get to try to live like a normal person who works only 40-60 hours a week." Stupid, I know.
Now, however, the "holiday" is passed. I want to get some reading done, so I will most likely retire to the easy chair across my bedroom and start making notes as I read. Once again, I am compelled to do as much as possible because in less than 20 hours I will be back on for another 5 days. Or, if today is like yesterday, it may be far less before the dreaded work cell phone rings.