Every weekend. Seriously.

Usually, the first day of my weekend is packed with activity. There's always dinner eaten out, and fun to be had, maybe some drinks at the local drinking establishment, maybe a movie. It's festive, because it my day off! And days off are fun!

Then comes the second day off. And you know, here is where I am torn. Because there's stuff that needs to get done. There are fruits and vegetables to be purchased. I should wash the salt off that new car. Dishes. Garbage. You know, stuff that's been building up for the entire week. But on the other hand ... I know that in order to function properly, my brain needs some alone time. I have to turn off all the lights and decompress. Let my mind "run around in the yard," so to speak. If there's one thing I've learned so far in life, it's that this kind of decompression is essential to both my physical and mental health. Ideally, this will take up an entire day.

So what I usually end up doing is some kind of compromise, where I tell myself I will accomplish a small list of things after spending the bulk of the day zoning out. This doesn't work. The very essence of decompressing involves establishing a lack of obligation. When I try to combine the two, I end up feeling a certain level of guilt, while still very little gets done.

Back around 1999 or 2000, I had my hours cut at work in such a way that I was off Friday-Sunday every week. Most of my co-workers grimaced at their new schedules. I was overjoyed. One of the best days of my life happened on one of these newly free Fridays, when I had some dental work done, then wandered around downtown under the influence of Lortab. Everything was soft and beautiful. I walked out onto the pier where I helped a little kid reel in an enormous steelhead. He strapped the fish, which was almost as big as he was, to his bike and peddled off. Then I walked back to Superior Street where a tremedously drunk man tried to get me to take a swig off his plastic liter bottle of Silver Wolf vodka. When I refused, he wiped the mouth of it off in his bare armpit. When I refused again, he asked me if I thought my dad was going to find out. (I was in my late 20s at the time.) Eventually he told me all about the "little squeakies" that crawl out of the sewer sometimes. I rode the bus home and drew a comic about it. See? This is the kind of day that makes it possible for me to deal with all the mundane bullshit of life. You can't have that kind of a day when you're thinking about getting your oil changed.

I wish I could just work four 10-hour days per week. Better yet, three 12-hour days. Jesus, not so long ago I was making do with one day off per week. I must be going soft.

Or maybe finally getting back to normal.