How I love them.
Ever since I was legally obligated to go to school five days a week, I anticipated the two days that I didn’t have to sit behind a desk for eight hours. I anticipated them even more now, sitting behind a desk five days a week for eight hours, but without the recess.
Elementary through High school, I would sleep in as long as I possibly could. I thoroughly enjoyed the moment waking where I realized I woke up on my own, not my alarm or my dad. It was nice to see it was light outside. I didn’t have to get up right away. I could turn over and sleep some more if I really wanted to. I would have day where I didn’t have to think about touching the homework until Sunday night if I could manage it.
In college, Saturdays were also homework free, unless I had a final. I always slept late and got up just in time for a leisurely stroll through campus to the Bison for lunch (unless it was cold, then it was more of a brisk speed walk). I didn’t have to rush off to class or meeting; I could enjoy my food (Well, try to at least, considering what sometimes passed for food….) I could go back to my room to watch TV, read (not a textbook!), check out the 19863745283754203948 events that were always occurring somewhere on campus, or maybe a nap. Soon it was dinner and time to get ready for the evening’s itinerary.
Now that I am an “adult”, I relish the days where I don’t have to get up before the sun, drag myself to work, and try to stay awake. I actually get up now at a time that my college self would have thought scandalous. (8am? Why in the hell would you want to be awake at that hour?) I like that I don’t have jump in the shower right away and rush through straightening my hair. I can get out of bed and do some yoga before the day starts, not after work when I am so exhausted that I would much rather be doing the “sleeping sloth” then cat, dog or whatever.
There also is another reason why I love the weekends:
For some weird reason, I love to do the laundry. I love it from dragging it down to the basement to hanging it in my closet, starched and pressed. In fact, I won’t let anyone else wash my clothes. Mostly it’s due to the fact, that I don’t want anyone with good intentions to accidently throw one of my Hand Wash Only shirts into the dryer on high. (It happened. It was almost devastating.) There is also something cathartic about putting dirty clothes into machines and have them come fluffy and clean with in a hour. It’s like all the anxiety, stress, frustration and those pesky coffee stains from the previous week are rinsed away and I can start the clean (and fluffy).