Counting down the hours until Friday comes around is my weekly dreaded chore. I must be the only person to absolutely house unadulterated hate toward the concept of the weekend.
It all began in college. Weekends were when the campus would become a ghost town and though I had plenty of friends, I never felt more alone. I would rejoice at the Sunday crowds in the depths of the libraries, right before classes would begin the next day.
Throughout the week dining with a meal plan was not at all deserving of its less than favorable reputation.
All hands were on deck, and my veggie burger station were all systems a-go. I relished the special black bean burger on days when the more “structured” in texture, miscellaneous veggie burger was not available.
Additionally, a new stash of soup crackers would be piled high in the bowl that I zoned in on while trying not to attract attention as I fished for my favorites: The Keebler rectangles and oyster pouches so that I would always leave a heaping mound of flaky saltines left behind.
After college, I came to enjoy weekends as I once had, in the depths of my childhood when school, Girl Scouts, piano lessons, and dance practice would take a backseat to 3-hour long Hindi films and going out with my parents to dine and shop.
Since this past year in graduate school, however, weekends at home was a major shock to my system and my way of doing things. Suddenly my disordered eating habits were on full display.
I no longer felt like I had earned the right to sit and enjoy watching a film or have an appetite for delicious food when I had not fasted and/or could work it off. I no longer danced or had physical education. I read. I wrote. I rode on the subway. I attended graduate school. I analyzed.
Weekends are still like this, despite the fact that I now eat a solid three meals and a snack that is my weight in fruit. My daily breakfast of protein-no batter-pancakes is scrutinized for its time-consuming and smoke-inducing quality while cooking.
As the weather is opening up, I’m beginning to harp back onto my childhood which was largely spent outdoors. I’m finally accepting, rather than realizing, that phases in life exist. That is to say, so what if I no longer play street hockey on roller skates or that playing tag now counts as an invasion of space equivalent to harassment? So what if being active is now slotted for a certain time as opposed to sprinkled with abandon? Who cares that my metabolism isn’t that of a child’s? Who really cares? These changes are part and parcel of growing up.
Isn’t this what I always wanted? It is.
I remember fire drills and half-days, reminiscing about being an adult who can appreciate the outdoors during the daytime and can hear birds chirp like I can now.
Last Friday my mother took the day off and while I know her doing so is ultimately to wind down and actually use one of her accumulated vacation days that her bosses have been pushing for her to use, I believe that she, in part, wants to spend time with me. I’ve been selfishly pushing everyone away, dreading the Friday I no longer have for myself.I’ve been counting down the days and mentally preparing myself for when I have to share that last vestige of alone-time before I am fully exposed on Saturday and Sunday.
That Friday, while pleasant, transitioned to Saturday. Another hellish weekend day. Yet again an argument. Yet again, a sinking feeling in the gut. Yet again, a desire to break away from all the shackles of a hard adulthood and wholeheartedly indulge in what could be. The adulthood I always dreamed of was one that isn’t this no matter how hard I try and make it out to be that way. Yet again, no offer from a job I am more more than qualified for after passing rounds one, two, three, and sometimes more.
Yet again, no response to my email and an impression of my tweet but not any human reception of said tweet.
I came to know early last week that this past Friday, my mother again had off. This time for ‘Good Friday.’ I thought today would be well and good, especially after our heart-to-heart on Thursday, however, it wasn’t even 11 am before a scuffle had ensued. That was to be expected. What wasn’t to be expected is that she again has off this upcoming Friday.
I’m taking this with a grain of salt. After all, it is kind of my prep for the upcoming week abroad. That’s right: A week in which I will be sharing a room and every passing day no longer by myself. We’re headed out and I can only imagine what is to come.
At least it is Monday - let the mental prep begin.