Consider the weekend, two entire days uncharted and unblemished, if you’re lucky, blanks to fill in however you wish. That is the view of the weekend from afar — from Thursday, say — when the demands of work or school chafe and you fantasize about how you’ll fill those unscheduled hours.
On Saturday mornings, I’m raw ambition. The bounty of 48 hours seems almost too much. What errand won’t be run? What household chore won’t be conquered? Let’s stack social engagements one on top of the other, brunch to soccer game to your cousin’s bar mitzvah, let’s sleep when we’re dead! Or let’s sleep now, squeeze in a cat nap, perhaps a leisurely lie-down with a book? Surely there’s enough time.
Sometimes I’ll devise a list of things I plan to do on a Saturday and then observe myself not doing any of them, almost as if absurdly proving to some invisible taskmaster that no one, not even me, will decide what I’m going to do today.
The best weekends, I’ve found, are not the ones where I try (and often fail) to squeeze in a lifetime’s worth of fun and productivity, but the ones where I deliberately do something that would be impossible during the week. This might be going to a museum, or out to breakfast. It might be sleeping in or going offline, taking a day trip or just doing several loads of laundry.