On Friday afternoon I’m unfurling my white flag of surrender and compiling tasks that I can take care of over the weekend. I’ll make progress on the grading and that report, and there are course notes and a couple of writing passages I can devote hours to.
And then on Friday evening I happily forget all that, temporarily at least. There’s another beer and we’ve popped popcorn after all.
On Saturday morning I sleep past sunrise. We all have breakfast together. I put on reading glasses but stay in pajama pants. I don’t check email or anything else connected to a broader world. I read poetry and an essay about a long trail run around Mt Blanc.
By mid morning I’m raking leaves in the backyard. Grading and that report are somewhere else in my subconscious.
By Saturday night, after a few other errands and an outing, I wonder where the weekend’s going, or even the day. Maybe tomorrow I’ll put real work into that report or possibly the course notes or maybe some of that writing. But a break would be nice. Take the dog out on a long run in the mountains while the weather is still good.
This is the paradox of a weekend. I need the cushion of two extra days just to create space to catch up on things that need to be caught up to. And, I find myself falling into those two days as respite from all those very same tasks. (And, also, I really needed to rake those leaves.) So I’ll consider this my writing exercise for the day.