Frankie Takes On: The Weekend

Or: Take Me Back to Last Friday

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These days, all I ever want to do is sleep. I’ve yet to determine whether this is a sign of aging or a sign of laziness, but for the sake of coolness, let’s assume for now that it’s the former.

 

My weekends are for sleeping around and lazing about, where I get to spend all day in bed and nobody makes a big deal out of it. So what, I reason to myself, I’ve been working hard the last five days. I deserve this. I deserve to hang out in my bed and sleep the hours away, blissfully ignorant of everything that needed to be done hours ago.

And yet, despite the hours I spend with my eyes closed, I always wake up immediately wishing I could do it all again. All of my sleeps, no matter how long they last, are always way too short for my liking. As soon as I open my eyes again, I always try and will the drowsiness to come back.

Okay, so maybe this is turning into a sign of laziness. Nobody should want to sleep so much at my age. At 25-nearing-26, I’m supposed to be full of activity and passion and drive. At this age, your average basketball player would be in the prime of his years. But no. At 25-turning-26, the highlights of my every day are the times I get to crash on my bed.

On the other hand, I might not be all that special. A lot of posts on the internet talk about nothing else but a universal feeling of tiredness and how much everybody wants to jump into bed so badly whenever the weekend comes. Everywhere, millennials (I still refuse to associate myself as such) are bragging about how sleepy and tired they all are, as if this was all some big competition when it’s always been a state of mind for me.

So what is it, really, this incessant desire to sleep? Is it getting older or getting lazier? Maybe it’s neither, and maybe I should just take it for the obvious sign it is: a sign of tiredness. What’s my problem anyway, trying to dissect this and pick at it to no end, hoping to find something profound?

When I was still in my first job two years ago, I remember writing this about the weekends:

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Funny thing is, this still stands true for me to some degree, even today. Even today, when my new job is miles and away better than that last one, yet still so mind-numbingly dull. The weekend is still a thing I look forward to every work week, although I no longer find myself desperately craving for it the same way I used to.

What I want to do, instead, is hit the pause button on it to make it last longer. So I take longer naps and crash on my bed whenever I can, hoping to maximize the hours, ’cause I know things won’t be the same when Monday comes back. I guess I should take it for the sign of progress it is, that I’m no longer willing to do just about anything to make sure my weekend stays.

Doing the mature thing, instead of whining about something impossible – that’s one real sign of aging you can point to for sure. Jury’s still out on how mature it really is to use sleep to escape your real life problems, however.

Song for the Weekend: 

“I hope the feelings I couldn’t put into words/Are carried out on these flower petals”

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