Today is an official holiday, the observance of Martin Luther King's birthday.
I remember when I looked forward to these three-day weekends with great relish, when the thought of having three full days away from the office and work was a gift to be anticipated and savored. Now that I'm no longer able to work, I find that weekends (long OR short) simply don't matter much anymore. The week consists of seven days, without much differentiation other than trash-and-recycling pick-up day, or Hillsdale Farmers' Market day, or the day that I refill the nifty container that houses the myriad medications and vitamins I take every day. Oh, and Shot Day, the day that David gets to stab me with an inch-and-a-quarter-long IM needle filled with Avonex, the medication that may (or may not) be slowing the progression of MS.
Our DVR (DISH TV video recorder) even eliminates the need to remember what day it is in order to watch a program we like: all of our faves are set up to record automatically, and we can watch them when (and if) we're up for it.
Many of our bills are set up to be paid automatically, both in Quicken (I bow to the person who developed this software, without which I would likely be in debtor's prison, given my complete lack of attention to detail and underdeveloped arithmetic skills) and in our bank's online bill-paying system. I get email from several credit card companies, letting me know that my monthly statement is available online, so I don't even need to open an envelope to record an upcoming payment or three.
Is it any wonder that I find myself not knowing the actual date more often than not? I can always look at one of the five paper calendars hanging in strategic places around the house, or at my Live With Intention 2007 Datebook, or even rest my cursor over the time displayed in the lower left-hand corner of my monitor screen to show the day and date. Hell, who needs a memory with all of these aids available?
And, sadly, who needs a three-day weekend when life is no longer neatly arranged into work-week and weekend?
Will I ever settle comfortably into this unwanted retirement? I wonder...
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Oh, sweetie. My first impulse is to say (so I'll say it) "treasure each day." I know where your frustration is coming from. At the same time, it's a gift, you know? A backhanded, I-never-asked-for-this gift, but still.
I love your observations about how arbitrary the calendar has become, thanks not only to imposed retirement but to the technology that we've so eagerly embraced.
Jer and I sometimes riff about the arbitrariness of Monday morning ("Welcome to the work week") or Friday afternoon ("Hey, it's the weekend!"). Of course, he's looked forward to retirement since forever; that's what that "Never Come Monday" plaque on our front door is about.
Hey, tomorrow might be a snow day. Don't have to go to work!
Love ya.
Post a Comment