I’m a writer. I’m a freelancer. I don’t have a 9 to 5 job anymore. I go where the jobs take me.
Sorry, I should be clear, I don’t literally “go”. I’m a writer. I do most of my work either at my home desk in my PJs or in my mobile office (that’s what I call working in my car – and yes, I’m fully clothed).
One thing I’m learning about freelancing is that “days” don’t mean what they once did. Hours, I am still mindful of, but the day on which those hours fall, not so much.
I remember when I had a desk and a regular job. I remember the Sunday night blues and the Monday morning blahs. Could my two days of sanctioned freedom be done so soon?! Out of the yard and back to the lockup.
I don’t feel that anymore, because I’m free-adjacent*.
My wife still works M-F, 9-5. She is the only thing like a calendar in my life. On Sunday nights, I feel her blues with her, and some of my own because I know I’ll have to drive her to work tomorrow and let her go (yeah, I’m clingy, so what).
On Wednesday her week is half done, and I’ll wish her a happy hump day if I get any idea that it’s actually Wednesday, but mine doesn’t work like that. The drama of days is hers to cope with. We even record our entertainment on a DVR and watch it when we feel like it, so I don’t even have Friends to tell me it’s Thursday anymore.
Sure, I may have given up Sunday blues and Monday blahs, but I’ve also lost TGIFridays and lets-alter-our-consciousness Saturdays. And no, I wouldn’t trade it back. Period.
Oh, and sorry if I missed your birthday.
*free-adjacent – when you feel free some of the time because you defy convention, but then quickly realize you have day-to-day responsibilities like scooping up cat shit and paying taxes and fighting parking tickets just like everybody else.