In terms of significance, Friday, Saturday (the lucky day off), and then Sunday. In terms of happiness - three golden days off.
The first thing I realised when I began working was that time is money. It's in terms of time that you go broke when people invite you for plans, when your parents ask you why you did not call back, and when the landlord suddenly wants to discuss 'things'.
This weekend was it. I was getting it all in order.
So when I got this long weekend off, I thought I would get my life sorted and in order for at least the coming month. I had the best form of 'currency' at hand and no dearth of places I could use it at.
Like one of the promises made at the beginning of the semester, I began the weekend. The plan was to wake up at a decent time, do the laundry, and then take that bus to the hills. It was going to be the day I get things in order and hit the road by the evening. Or so I thought.
I woke up at around noon. Who sets an alarm when the next three days are off, right? By the time I was done with my laundry my Friday was over. Gone. Just like that.
If you're planning a trip on a long weekend, leave on Friday. Because just like payday where you're all psyched when it arrives but realise by the end (of your money and the long weekends) that you should have been diligent with the way you spent it.
Because I then made plans of leaving the city the next day. But waking up on a Saturday morning is just gross overconfidence. The thing about getting an off for three days straight meant I wanted to do everything, so I binged watched Netflix till dawn, imagining being on the bus to Kasol 8 AM. Because as far as my calculations went, I'd still have a day to just sit back and do nothing. That turned out with me waking up late afternoon and doing what I'd do on any other weekend - catch up.
Meeting old chums is cathartic. Most of them have the same woes as you. They too were looking forward to a stellar weekend away from the bustle, but mismanagement got the better of them.
When you finally realise it's a Saturday and the second day too is coming to an end, you want to appear productive at least to yourself. Which is why I am going to meet up all the folks whom I bailed on, share woes over alcohol and make the pain go away. What was supposed to be a day in the hills, turned into a night about mah life, mah rulzz, and who the hell cares about hangovers...until the next day.
On Sunday, the last day off, I have plans and ones that are not going to doom. It will include hangovers, Disprins, and some more Netflix. This could have been the day I would've come back home, refreshed from a trip, so obviously remorse is part of the plan.
Waking up to a hangover means two things, first is the fact that mid-twenties are here and 'drinking' like a fish is not a good idea. Second, you know the day will pass in nursing yourself back into facing the next day, week, and the month- all of which were supposed to pan out in.... many other beautiful ways. Hangovers are reminders of all the things you lost, like a perfect weekend.
This was exactly not how my weekend was supposed to pan out.
This was supposed to be my 'Carpe the fuck out of that diem' kinda three days. I was not supposed to be cooped up in my apartment.
I had real plans.
Then life happened, I got lazy, and here I am - whining away whatever time I have left.