Hi readers,
As I have gotten older, the meaning of "the weekend" has shifted dramatically. As a pre-teen, it meant two 5 AM wake up calls in a row and an average of 200 early morning lengths of a Olympic-size pool. Slightly older, I went to boarding school, where Saturday generally meant classes again and Sunday meant morning study hall (I once served 9 Sunday morning study halls in a row). In college, Saturday night was spent playing pool in my friend's garage and Sunday we moved to the backyard for horseshoes. In the beginning of my work life, there was no real differentiation for the weekend, as my schedule shifted weekly and I usually worked weekends at one of my seven jobs.
Once I started a Monday-Friday work week, I started to understand the sacred nature of the single, adult weekend. Lingering over lunch. Relaxing on a Sunday afternoon. Puttering around a quiet apartment. Going for a hike.
This past weekend was glorious in that it was nothing special. I stayed home (a rare occurance this past fall and something I am overjoyed to do). I didn't go out late (for Spaniards, getting home from dinner at 2 AM Saturday morning is actually considered quite responsible). I watched the X Files. I made frozen pizza. I thought about writing my next short story. I skyped with my dad AND my sister. I went on a run in Retiro park. Apparently, there was some sort of football game on?
It was glorious. Pictures from park below.
As I have gotten older, the meaning of "the weekend" has shifted dramatically. As a pre-teen, it meant two 5 AM wake up calls in a row and an average of 200 early morning lengths of a Olympic-size pool. Slightly older, I went to boarding school, where Saturday generally meant classes again and Sunday meant morning study hall (I once served 9 Sunday morning study halls in a row). In college, Saturday night was spent playing pool in my friend's garage and Sunday we moved to the backyard for horseshoes. In the beginning of my work life, there was no real differentiation for the weekend, as my schedule shifted weekly and I usually worked weekends at one of my seven jobs.
Once I started a Monday-Friday work week, I started to understand the sacred nature of the single, adult weekend. Lingering over lunch. Relaxing on a Sunday afternoon. Puttering around a quiet apartment. Going for a hike.
This past weekend was glorious in that it was nothing special. I stayed home (a rare occurance this past fall and something I am overjoyed to do). I didn't go out late (for Spaniards, getting home from dinner at 2 AM Saturday morning is actually considered quite responsible). I watched the X Files. I made frozen pizza. I thought about writing my next short story. I skyped with my dad AND my sister. I went on a run in Retiro park. Apparently, there was some sort of football game on?
It was glorious. Pictures from park below.
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