The weekend whiff is special. It’s glorious. It’s all that it’s made out to be and more. There is hope, deliberation and the feeling that something new (and potentially exciting) is waiting in the wings. It could be the play you want to see and almost miss and then end up watching from the second row. Or your car stereo that you declare dead on arrival, suddenly coming to life.
And mingled with all that’s sweet and pure is the stench of the not-so-far-away monday morning. Bad traffic to start the day with and a string of (hyphen) days rather than (hyphen) ends to look forward to. I wonder if weekdays are getting a raw deal. More than half the world was born on a weekday and surely someone was rejoicing. But for every happy daddy in the waiting room, there is probably a doctor cursing the baby that ate his lunch time, on the nothing-to-cheer-about-weekday.
Saturday then is a godsend, Sunday is huh-what-where’d-it-go day and the remaining famous five are what novelists would not write about. Like all precious things, we arrange safe boxes and lockers for weekends-only activities…the weekend book, the weekend drive, the weekend comedy, the weekend jive.
Sometimes (strictly sometimes) it helps to give weekdays a chance. Pancakes for dinner on a Thursday, high heels and makeup on a Tuesday or embarrassing dance moves on a Wednesday.
The motto then: loathe the activity, not the day. Boycott boredom, embrace weekday stardom
And more often that not, spray on that weekend perfume on what promises to be the worst weekday. If smelling is believing, then a Monday as an aspiring Saturday is a good start.