The last hour and a half of my workday is taunting me slowly with the possibility of 63 hours of unplanned weekend with no major chores or tasks that need accomplished besides staying dry and warm. BC and I may rendezvous out on the town tonight, we may not. Laundry could get done, but it’s not urgent. And my must-read Christmas gift book pile is shrinking regularly.
Weekends should always be such open-ended affairs. I spent most of college juggling to see which party invite was the most fun, which volunteer gig had an activity, who I could see and what I could do. In my new-ish thirties, the idea of no obligations is a mini-vacation. And without obligations, every little accomplishment- painting my nails, writing a poem, finishing a great book- seems inflated with power. I’ve done something! Something I didn’t have to do.
Last night, completely out of the blue, the ex called to see if we could meet up and catch up over coffee. And then proposed dinner instead. The wimpy, nice girl part of my brain told me I should. The evil part of me said “Dinner! But that kills a WHOLE evening!” A year ago, the sweet pea would have won out. But instead, I just said no. There’s nothing for us to catch up on. We shared some great, and a lot of not-so-great times. We almost got married. But we are not now, nor will ever be (as far as I know) dinner pals. We are memories.
So in addition to feeling like the weekend is all mine, I also have the delight of finding my brain and my heart are all mine as well. It’s taken a while, but this lady has learned to say no, firmly and with flair. There may be an 80’s night and some new shoes in my future. Because, I’ll do what I want. For the next 63 hours at least.