In those days when I worked in an office, the fleeting embrace of the weekend was an eagerly awaited reprieve from the twice-daily trudge back and forth to the pulsating heart of a chaotic city and workplace. The looming spectre of Monday was a harbinger of the tension-filled hours that lay in wait.
Yet, in a twist of irony, the hands of time have shifted my perspective. Now, it is the dawn of a Monday that brings solace, while weekends are met with unease. There are pragmatic reasons, of course. The weekdays offer quieter streets and stores, devoid of the bustle; it allows moments of solitude, whereas weekends are often consumed by familial obligations.
But to attribute my discomfort simply to these would be incomplete. Some might speculate that weekends, symbolizing the ‘end’, stir thoughts of life’s ephemerality, and something to resist. But that connection to my impending conclusion is not something I dwell on. While weekends might have once offered a period of freedom and spontaneity, the familiar cadence of a weekday now feels like a warm comforter on a cool winter night. It’s this very routine that hands me the reins, allowing me to steer clear of the shadows of tension.