Ode to Weekends

Some weekends are turtles, hard and shellacked (they move in the same pace too).  Occasionally they rear their head and just as sudden, retreat into their shell and hide there ’til Monday when they’re forced to wear paisley neckties.  Weekends like these are black and lazy and oftentimes catatonic; like watching your toenails grow.

Some weekends are mellow, like a Johnny Mathis song playing in the Saturday afternoon twilight.  You look outside your window and see time wafting, a cumulus cloud wrapped around your potted mayanas.  Everything is as easy as your homemade latte.  You think of the night ahead and look forward to an unhurried evening.  You know there will be no alarm clocks in the morning and it makes you smile even more.

Weekends are gifts to working stiffs like me. They are windows of time that provide respite to a life that’s taken over by responsibilities and deadlines.  This is when I blossom, this is when I bask under the sun, this is when I live.