I can’t help but feel a little guilty about not accomplishing a whole hell of a lot this week. Sure, I’ve been working. Sortof. I mean, it’s not like I’ve just been sitting and staring. But ask me what I’ve done, what I’ve ticked off the list, and I couldn’t really tell you. The world is quiet–quite quiet–so I can only imagine that much of the world has elected not to work this week either.
Owing to the fact that it’s the week before Christmas and Gabriel is home from school, I’m hard-pressed to consider this a viable work week. There is work to be done, yes, but how can I possibly take anything too seriously when my son gets to enjoy Pyjama Time all the time? And the added pressure of Christmas preparations does weigh heavily. Mind you, not heavily enough to get me off my ass and do anything about it. (Note to self: draft, review, execute, complete Christmas list.)
Monday came with a sense that, being Monday, it was a work day and I needed to be at work. Yet I remained in my kitchen in my bathrobe well through the morning. In the back of my mind lingered the fear that my Grandad would stop in to visit as he’s wont to do before lunchtime. I felt much closer to my bed than a visit with Grandad.
On Tuesday I was plagued by the feeling that I was forgetting something. Like I’d left the house without any pants on. I’d already shot this week’s edition of ArtsNow so Tuesday floated rudderless in a sea of, well… maybe if I was in a working frame of mind I could come up with a good simile for that.
The thing is, I would be so much more comfortable with the day if it were a Saturday. See, Saturday has a restful quality to it that’s tinged with a hint of accomplishment more voluntary than mandatory. Sunday is your day of rest. Saturday you can get things done but at your own pace: rest a little and get up off the couch when you’re damn good and ready. Do that stuff on your own terms.
What would work here, I guess, is a week of Saturdays. I could get a lot done in a week full of Saturdays: all of the accomplishment, none of the pressure. Shedding my bathrobe before noon would probably be a good start. I’ll get right on that.