The weekend used to mean something. Friday at five o'clock was a religious event. The loosening of the tie, the physical sensation of the week releasing its grip. I lived for weekends for forty-six years.
Now every day is a weekend. And I have absolutely no idea what to do with myself.
When there is no Monday, there is no Friday. The relief of Saturday requires the misery of Tuesday. Remove the week, and the weekend loses its meaning. It's just a day.
I spent the first six months convinced I was on holiday. An unusually long one. I'd wake up on Saturday with that electric charge, make elaborate breakfast plans, feel pleasantly superior to everyone still working. Then I'd remember I also wasn't working, and that the elaborate breakfast was not a treat but simply breakfast.
The strange truth is that retirement doesn't give you more weekends. It abolishes the concept. What you get instead is undifferentiated time — entirely yours — and the slightly vertiginous job of deciding what any of it means.
What I've found is a different relationship with days — less about the relief of Friday, more about the texture of the morning. The slow cup of tea. The desk at seven. The light in May.
I thought I knew what free time felt like. Until I had all of it.
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