Saturdays have become my day for sleeping. And not the sort of sleeping one might associate with the weekend—lounging in bed until noon, then up and off to run errands and get one’s non-work life in order—but, rather, something altogether strange. My Saturdays begin with an uncanny optimism that this will be the weekend unlike any other, in which record numbers of items will be ticked off to-do lists and I will wake up Sunday morning satisfied by the productivity of the prior 24 hours. And the days always start with such promise: up by 9am, out the door by 10am, sometimes to run errands, other (more frequent) times to see a movie before noon (when it’s only $8 at AMC).
Things always go awry, though, when I return home. My bed: it beckons. And how could it not? It is so comfortable, and it is there, the centerpiece of my room, the mainstay of my living space, the place where, when I am home I spend all of my time. It is a joke I’ve made too often: “What does my life as a freelancer have in common with a prostitute?” Hmm… “We both do all our work in bed.” <Rim shot>
So, then: Saturdays. It’s 2pm, maybe 3pm, and I climb into bed to take a nap, get comfortable—and, oh, it is so comfortable—and set the alarm on my phone for half an hour, 45 minutes, an hour later… and I wake up several hours later, dehydrated and disoriented and dismayed at where the day has gone.
But then I get to work. And start writing. And even though I’m usually up all night, and my sleep schedule is thrown out of whack, there are advantages to having an upside-down kind of life. Things are quieter in the early morning hours, for one. And there are fewer distractions, not to mention more freedom to be creative without worrying about other people wanting me to spend time with them.
So here I am, another Saturday at almost 10pm, writing and working and watching TV and just being me. The four-hour nap I took was totally worth it. And then some.