There’s something that doesn’t quite sit right with weekends anymore. What used to be a glorious prospect involving lengthy lay-ins until lunchtime, big nights out and lazy days spent trawling high streets or debriefing with friends about the vodka haze, is now this big internal ‘can I be arsed?’ battle.
Some things haven’t changed. For instance, going out on a Friday night still makes the weekend feel longer, and getting a night out done and dusted with two days stretching out in front of you to do sweet FA is still the best way to go about life. It’s also still true that Sunday hangovers are the worst and that making plans for Sunday afteroon (but nothing that ends later than 8) is good for combating the blues.
These are weekend rules I’ll probably always live by. Rules that became ingrained when I was in my late teens and very early 20s and have just continued to serve me well. Now staring down the barrell of 26 (I know, it’s not old, but I still remember rolling around in Spoons aged 19 drinking jugs of blue alcohol like it was happening a couple of hours ago so forgive me for my horror) all I want from weekends is rest and food that makes me feel satisfied and a bit smug. Smutisfied. I want a meal that makes me feel smutisfied. Think heavy on the cheese, plenty of veg, semi-fancy wine and good helping of carbs.
These days, plans freak me out. Getting to Friday is still beautiful and amazing and I scroll through Instagram without hating all those ‘FRIYAY’ memes as much as I hate other slogan posts, but there’s this slight fear for what’s coming if I know it’s a busy one.
Not going out on Friday and Saturday used to be a failure. It used to make me feel like I was wasting time or not using my short freedom from employment properly. Now days, realising I have places to be and people to please at various locations and times across Saturday and Sunday makes me feel a bit sad.
That’s the problem with being a mid-20s grandma- plans start to hit you hard. When you wake up tired, you just want to spend your weekend laying, floating around, maybe going food shopping, maybe going to the gym, maybe going to the pub, probably watching half a series of something on Netflix and unashamedly eating in bed with half a can of dry shampoo in your hair. But it’s not all boring. I still really love an impromptu night out because they just sneak up on you so you don’t have time to think about how tired you are or how little money you have. I do get excited for seeing friends, I’m not an unsociable snore entirely, and I definitely like birthday meals, celebrations and long afternoons in the sun (three times a year if we’re lucky), but i also really, massively look forward to REST. Sweet, glorious and unassuming rest.
Despite this love of doing nothing, weekends also seem to get filled and booked out weeks in advance and now I have to arrange something stupid like going for a few drinks on a Saturday afternoon weeks before the event. I’m not sure how these things happen. I’m not sure if maybe I’m just lame. But I do know I don’t care.
Walking around the house after a day of total relaxation drinking wine and wearing big socks and loose pyjamas is my grandma dream.