The working week really takes it out of me, most of the time.
The early starts, so much harder when it’s still so cold beyond the duvet cover. The commute – most of which I spend wondering why I’m not lazing on a beach in some far flung paradise instead. The too-short evenings, passed by in a whirlwind of cooking, eating, trying to accomplish something meaningful, but succumbing to sleep sooner rather than later. And the 8 hours of work in between, quietly but quickly amounting over days and weeks until they eventually turn into years.
When Friday finally comes along, I am ever so slightly excited. In my old age, I’ve learned to appreciate a good meal, a glass of wine, and a late night nap on the sofa over nights out in cheesy clubs spending money I don’t have on drinks I can barely taste. The feeling of freedom that comes with knowing that I have two whole days ahead of me to do with as I please is pretty much euphoric.
And do with them as I please, I most certainly do. For me, a perfect weekend provides a balance of creativity, relaxation, and socialising. Of eating, learning, laughing, and writing. Of making the most of good weather, and acknowledging the importance of spending time at home.
On weekends, I like to make time for things I can’t do during the week. Making pancakes, or poached eggs, for breakfast. Taking a mid-morning stroll to the store, buying fresh flowers and newspapers, and treats for en lite fika. There’s something about taking time to indulge in these small joys that feels good for the soul.
Then there are the people I get to fill these two days with. The coffee I grab with my mother and sister; the friendly familiarity of the cafe owners, who call me madame, the conversations that wind through cigarette smoke and giggles. The riverside drinks and impromptu picnics with colleagues turned girlfriends. The ordered-in pizza and boardgames I play with my friends who, over the years, have become just like family.
Weekends are sacred, and fleeting. Some are better than others; more balanced, more lasting. But all, in their own ways, offer respite and escape from the troubles the weekdays have wrought. May they never cease to be full of people, and pancakes, and flowers, and coffee, and creativity, and laughter, and good food, and hope, that one day life might feel more like one long, never ending weekend.
What’s your idea of the perfect weekend?