Saturday Mornings...

Saturday mornings are my favorite time of the week.  The idea of two days stretching out before me that, most of the time, I can do whatever I want whenever I want.  Sure, there are probably chores and errands that need to be done, but I can often decide how and when to do them.  Occasionally, I’ll have a family obligation or a visit to or from friends that might be a cement pillar in my open-road schedule.  Otherwise, on Saturday mornings, my future, at least for two days, is mine to author.  An undiscovered country of possibilities.

However, by Saturday afternoon, I start thinking that soon the weekend will be half over, and I have accomplished nowhere close to what I wanted to.  I begin mentally prioritizing my to-dos.  I shift items to the top that might be quicker to accomplish instead of the most important.  This way, I can slice through them Ginsu-quick with a cross-out line on my list.  And thereby, restore my self-delusion that I’ve been a productive member of the human race.

As Saturday evening rolls around, I’m more disillusioned with my accomplishments and questioning the meaning of life and every choice I’ve made that has led me to such a sloucher of a day.  I probably drown my sorrows in soft pop culture or, more traditionally, hard booze.  Don’t try to be a tough guy in these situations; you need to manage the pain.  By bedtime, I’ve resolved to make such productivity strikes tomorrow that will bring David Allen and Tony Robbins to genuflect, weeping, before me.  I fall asleep to comforting rumbles of coming thunderous dreams of conquering the world.  Or, at least, my to-do list for the weekend.

Cut to Sunday morning.  I sleep in.  When I finally get up, it is with the realization that the weekend is almost over.  Not that it is a little over half-over, but that it is almost over.  I’m a glass more than half empty kind of guy when it comes to weekends, I guess.  So now I’m staring down the real possibility that I’ve got another wasted weekend on my hands, and the next opportunity for redemption will not come until another five long days have passed. 

Still, by Sunday, I start to persevere in the face of my self-styled apocalyptic doom.  I’m prioritizing things by what absolutely needs to get done to keep the inertia of life stumbling and weaving forward.  I might even get into the zone that makes my rushed flailing into a precision, all pistons firing, surgical-strike, eat-your-heart-out-Fred-Astaire poetic dance allow me to get ahead of things.

Sunday evening, I’m proud of what I’m getting done.  Perhaps even arrogance sets in.  Then I think about what I could do with one more day -- what I could have done if I’d gotten in gear yesterday and not bumbled about most of the weekend.  The thought breaks my stride, sends me to my knees, and leaves me stone-faced at a finish line too far away to cross.  I might have gotten some things done, but the weekend is coming to a close and my to-do, hardly weakened by my attacks, mocks me like a schoolyard bully.  It’s now bedtime, and I’m resolved to my fate.  I’m mostly numb to the verdict and accept my sentence.  For wanton disregard of productive time during the weekend, I’m sentenced to five days where my time is not my own. 

It’s probably for the best. 

I apparently can’t be trusted to manage my own time wisely.