Working for the Weekend

Last night I was seriously bummed. Not unusual for a Sunday evening. The end of the weekend, the end of doing whatever the heck you want, and the beginning of another work week. And then it hit me: why am I assigning meaning to only two days out of the week? That implies that I'm living in a void the other 261 days of the year.

Scary thought.

In our society it's ingrained in us from an early age that work/school is something you're supposed to do, but not necessarily like. That weekends are fun time, free time, your time. But I don't dislike my job; in fact, I like it very much. I come home tired, yes, but with a sense of accomplishment. So why do I feel like my weekends are the only days that matter? This is not just my own conundrum; in reading books on Buddhism, I've come to realize this is a common problem. I really don't like the idea that only my weekends are meaningful because those are the days I get to write, spend quality time with my husband, and read to my heart's content. My weekdays have meaning, too - I just need to find it and make it a greater priority.

Hmmm. I need to think more about this.