How old am I? Old enough to forget about long weekends, that’s how.
Long weekends–especially summer long weekends–hold a special place in our culture and, dare I say it, psyche. Having three whole-days-in-a-row off work is a stupendous, momentous, not-possible-to-miss event. Especially in the early decades of my employment, I could never understand how some people never seemed to know when a long weekend was coming. How could they miss it?
Well, maybe they were tied to different work patterns than the Monday to Friday grind.
Maybe they worked rotating shifts in 24/7 operations where the days-on/days-off schedule was designed without any regard for weekends, much less the long ones.
Maybe they routinely worked their share of weekends in operations that offered service to the public six or seven days a week.
Maybe Saturday or Sunday was their one non-negotiable day-of-work, like clergy.
Maybe they worked on deadline-driven projects where regular weekends were just another two days to spend at the office, but in a blessed quiet. Oh, wait, that was me.
And maybe they were no longer tied to any work pattern, so that weekends no longer loomed large: They loomed small, I guess. Oh, wait, that’s me now, too.
Indeed, I find that Victoria Day (this year occurring on May 22, not May 24) snuck up on me this year. I could feel like an idiot, but I think instead I’m just going to feel like this.
A long weekend?
What a nice surprise.
What do I do with it?