It was one of those Fridays. I came home Thursday night and fell asleep at 7 pm on the couch with every intention of waking up at 10 to get some things done around the house before rolling back into bed. Instead, I woke up when the fiance’ rolled in from work at midnight. By the time we caught up on the day, looked over his homework for school, shoveled down some mac and cheese, and I made it back to bed, it was 3 am. Which meant that when the alarm went off at 5:30 am, I hit snooze and rolled back over at 7:30. I dashed into some clothes, called a cab, and waited. And waited. Until the cab showed up at 8:45 due to traffic. I dragged myself into the office at 9:15 and hot the ground running. And it didn’t stop until I rolled out the door from work and into my front door at 8:00 pm.
And now that it’s the weekend, I can’t seem to slow that working brain down to the idea that I have three long, uninterrupted, plan-free days to kill. That it’s ok for me to sleep instead of doing the dishes, to read one of the three books I got for Christmas, to write, and lounge and refuse to be productive for a while.
“Productivity” is the curse of the American life. My friends from Europe and Australia are fascinated by the way we work so hard, such long days, without enough vacation, and then define ourselves by our careers. They work for nine months or so, save all their money, and then spend a month’s vacation on the beach in Greece. They cook real dinners and linger over them with wine til ten, while I scrub and cram in some extra take home work. And I envy them. I’m spending the weekend re-prioritizing- putting my life before the work in my life.