Saturdays
Saturdays are strange days for me. I usually wake up early, just before daylight breaks. I wake up with a sense of dread, because I work Saturdays.
I’ll waste most of the morning sipping chai and staring jealously at the cat who likes to hang out in our living room. It’s too easy to envy big fluffy sleepy kitties. There’s too much to be jealous of.
I’ll get to work, which will fly by. It’s hard to complain about working Saturdays when you’re surrounded by people who are working on Saturday, because once you’ve managed to get to work the only real challenge is to remain there, which is really easy to do what with inertia and all that.
In a few short hours, my weekend will finally belong to me, and this morning will flee my memory for another week, and I’ll feel as though my day has barely begun.
But for now, I’m stuck counting hours. So far, there are eight of them. With a rainy commute and the arduous task of getting dressed ahead of me, that sounds like too many hours. I get up too early on Saturdays.
Wow, this post itself was yet another excuse to avoid getting on with my day. Congratulations, self.