This is the exchange we’ve been having for the last few weeks at the start of each day, whether or not it’s Saturday. (We started with, “Happy retirement,” but that didn’t last long.)
Sometimes, on actual Saturdays, we say, “Happy weekend” instead, but what that really means is: Meh.
Let’s Start By Talking About Saturdays
For our entire lives, Saturdays have been the day of magical promise. Untainted by the Sunday Blues that follow, and not infected by mandatory work and email (or school work and attendance before that) like the weekdays. Even when we had to do work on Saturdays, it was rarely on the same kind of timeline that a weekday would mandate. Usually it was just to get someone something at some point. And if it was homework that needed doing, well that could surely wait until Sunday. (Or, erm, Sunday night. Late night.)
More than any other day of the week, those precious Saturday hours belonged to us alone, a feeling surely shared by the millions who work or go to school on a Monday through Friday schedule.
We spent all these years looking forward to a life full of more Saturdays, and now we’re here. We have nothing but Saturdays in front of us. Each day is essentially like the one before it and the one after it, except that some days I need to write a blog post, and other days Mark has volunteer board meetings.
But even though we’re still only about two months into early retirement, we’ve already noticed something odd about days and time.
The flow of days makes far less sense when you’re not punching a clock or serving clients when they’re at the office. Suddenly weekdays and weekends blur together, and the thought that someone would