I used to love weekends. I could sleep in a little, move slowly, catch up on the housework and cooking, get outdoors, socialize, garden, sew ... you know, all that weekend stuff. With the backdrop and the embrace of my family, weekends were a mixture of stuff for us and stuff for me. A nice mixture.
But for the last few months, I have floundered through my weekends like a fish flapping on the dock, desperate to get back to my Right Place, wondering what the hell I am meant to do now that I am alone. My house isn't dirty, so the weekly housework takes a lick and a spit. My food needs are few, so there's no need to spend Sundays in the kitchen.
Yes, I can sew, I can paint, I can garden. Yes, I can call my girlfriends and arrange to see them. Yes, I can hike or go to an art gallery. In other words, yes, I can fill my weekend. But it all feels so arbitrary. Why choose one thing over another? Why do stuff just to fill the days? I have no direction. Nothing has meaning. I don't want to be busy just for the sake of it, but neither do I want to be idle, listening to the crazy talk in my head.
So when I was faced with a 3.5 day weekend (our office closed at 1PM Friday), I felt some trepidation.
However, I am happy to report, that today was very nice.
First, I gave blood. That's just iodine on my arm, in case you thought they'd botched the canula.
Then I had lunch with some girlfriends.
Then I went to the Skirball to see the Houdini exhibition, which closes tomorrow.
Then I came home and prepped my bedroom for painting.
These are all things that have been On The List for some time, so it felt really good to do and enjoy them. I am excited about the bedroom transformation; I've decided to put a little money and effort into making the room a place I really want to be. I think it will help my weekend blues.
1.5 days down, 2 to go. This is easy, right?