It's Sunday - and Swiftly Follows Monday

I don’t know - it seems to me that the weekends pass so much more quickly than the rest of the week.

I know that there are more days to the ‘work-week’ - but even so - weekends end before they’ve even had a chance to truly begin.

I say this because I seem to be in constant search of ‘the day off’.

I know I hinted at this the other day - talking about how holidays mean very little when your ‘job’ consists of your life and your life happens daily, without rest (I couldn’t really say ‘without end’ as, we all know, some things are finite…) - there is never a ‘down time’; a time given over simply to relaxing.

There are beds to be made, dishes to be done, laundry to be washed and dried, groceries shopped for, dinner to be prepared; not to mention workouts, writing, piano, etc.

Ah, yes!

Though the last three may appear to be purely personal and not what one might consider work, they are, for they require concentration and an unwavering dedication on a daily basis - if that’s not work, I don’t know what is.

The point is - even on the day that I think I have ‘off’ - I’m still working.

I’ve discovered that the only time I am actually capable of having a holiday is when I am away from all this - only then do I get to completely relax.

Is it the same for everyone?

I suppose it is - the difference is that people think that I have all the time in the world because I don’t go into an office - but that’s just not true.

My days are often filled with fulfilling the necessities of running a household and very little of that time is actually spent on me or in leisure.

Bonbons are not being eaten.

Grapes are not being peeled.

Ostrich-feathered fans are not being waved above me to keep the heat from my delicate skin.

No, I work - all the time.

And then some.

Yes, one day does melds into the next, but I do try to demarcate the weekend - futile though it may be.

For there is no rest.

And I am not wicked.

I’m looking forward to the next holiday.

Away.