Working for the weekend
Amidst all my northern self-discovery and deep thoughts, I find myself at a standstill when it comes to work.
I am working for the weekend, clocking in my 8 hours a day just to get out, to go home, to get one out of five days closer to the weekend’s return. I don’t lament work. I don’t dread coming. While there, I am usually pleased with the level of effort I put in, and in retrospect I am very proud of the work I do and the role I play in society via my occupation.
For the two months between when I was done school and moved here, I became so bored without a job. My routine was gluttonous, non-contributive. It was relaxing, but you know when you get relaxed, it’s even harder to get up and do something. Besides, I had the luxury of looking forward to guaranteed work.
But now that I’m here, now that I’ve decorated my desk with pictures and a now-dying ivy, the novelty has worn off. I’m at work, I sit at my desk, and the grass is looking greener on the other side.
On the weekend I can sleep in, I can take my time baking and cooking. I can watch teen movies on TBS and stay in sweatpants. I can have Saturday nights, a drink, and an excuse to wear shinier, silkier shirts than normal. I can do the things I put off until the weekend, I can have lunch when I want to!
Come Sunday, I don’t look forward to the next day’s 9 to 5. I ceremoniously pick out my clothes and get the week’s groceries that will turn into brown bag lunches. That’s no fun.
Work is like the boring parent. The one you spend the most time with so that the things you get accustomed to doing together are no longer treats, they’re just ‘the way.’ Then the fun parent comes home, the one who hasn’t spent all day punishing you, and you have the option of being silly and goofy where before, that behaviour indicated it was perhaps time for a nap.
Does my lack of continuously motivating passion for work mean I am not meant to be a journalist? Am I supposed to be tuned into my inner reporter all the time, always on the job, therefore meaning work is life and life is work and there is no more looking forward to the weekend? Am I supposed to be so satisfied by my weekday job that it is almost difficult to leave Friday at closing?
It’s Friday at 11;18 and 5 o’clock is looking real far from now.