The anatomy of a week ending
weekend | ˌwiːkˈɛnd, ˈwiːkɛnd |
noun Saturday and Sunday, especially regarded as a time for leisure
And just like that, another week ends. While the to-do list for a work-week ahead begins to write itself, the whole world, perhaps, looks on wearily (and warily) at the looming crises of ongoing w!r(s), surging oil prices, and a potentially imploding market. Tonight’s newsletter isn’t about any of this, because I am far too tired to extrapolate. Instead, I sit with the feeling of losing a weekend.
My intense anticipation for the weekend begins on Thursday evenings; only comparable with my yearning for summer vacation in school. On Thursday evenings, I head home from work with a skip in my step, realising that I am close to the finish line for the time being. This is in stark contrast with the way Friday progresses, viz. at a glacial pace.
Friday mornings are often the busiest; while there are pressing deadlines, there are also a host of administrative tasks to be finished before the weekend arrives. Where the former would rank higher in the Eisenhower Matrix, the latter usurps most of one’s time because administrative tasks are simply that black hole that one cannot help but get sucked into. Before we know it, half the day has gone, but the end is nowhere in sight.
The second half of Fridays are like hat-tricks; the magician pulls and pulls at cloth after never-ending cloth. The hours stretch on; all the work, somehow, gets done; the things that can’t can wait. The rest of the evening can be likened to the warm glow of a tall lamp inside a dark room— a source of illumination wide enough to cover and touch everything, offering a sense of solace and calm.
On those Saturdays designed less favourably, they pass us by so quickly. Before we know it, it’s 13:00, and we fear that we might waste a perfectly pleasant day indoors. We rush to make the most of whatever is left. On a good Saturday, we might strike that delicate balance between personal productivity, rest, and social interaction. On these days, one finds time stretching so far and quickly into the next day. Before we realise it, it’s the wee hours of Sunday morning already, and the pressure to shut our eyes to honour the day of rest takes over.
Sunday mornings are filled with ambivalence; I wake up with that slight sense of dread that it’s already here. Yet somehow, they are kind; they host you, take you by the hand and lead you to the breakfast table, reminding you to slow down, regardless of everything outside. When you do look outside, however, you realise that everything there is slow, too; the air is still; not a soul stirs on the streets; and silence is interrupted with the sounds of cooker whistles, TV shows, or the occasional auto that goes by. After this, almost as if it were too good to be true, the day moves ahead at breakneck speed. We whizz past the afternoon, well into the early hours of the late evening. It’s 19:00, and you’re staring at the clock. The numbers, and the number of hours left, cannot possibly hold all the promises you had made. Only a few more hours until you close your eyes, and it’s all over.
Well, here I am. As the lingering fear of losing time takes over, and my desire to hold on to the hours that remain grows stronger, the tiredness behind my eyes accepts defeat. In some ways, I suppose the weekend is ideal only because it is temporary. It’s designed to be loved and desired; it is fleeting, illusory, and a temptress at best. A weekend is a love affair that can never crystallise into anything more serious, lest it should lose its sheen. Like most of these, they continue week after week, compelling us to want them more, without promising anything in return.