I’m heading in to a three day long weekend — hallelujah. THREE WHOLE DAYS OFF, and for the first time in months, I have nothing pressing to do. No house hunting, no mortgage appointments, no packing, no moving, no unpacking, no Tinder dates, no tests to write… nothing.
Not to say I will do nothing. I don’t have the type of personality to sit around and do sweet fuck all. I live for productivity, and I plan to get a lot done over the next three days. But there is something freeing about having no specific obligations. I can paint my house, work out, study, shop, have sex, drink, nap… I can do whatever my little heart desires, and I don’t have to work around a pre-set schedule. This is what weekends are meant to be; I, unfortunately, do not have enough of them.
There once was a time in my life when things were different. Way back when I was in my 20s, married, and unfit. Back in the old days, weekends were for camping, beer drinking and smoking cigarettes. I didn’t get up early on weekends because I wanted to get a run in. RUNNING was not even in my vocabulary. I didn’t spend my Sunday mornings at the coffee shop reading text books. Why study? I had already finished my accounting program; there was no need to further my education. Life was different back then. My expectations of myself were different.
I was a run-away, high school drop out at the age of 16 years old. When I straightened my shit out and returned to school, got married, and bought a house, I was satisfied with my accomplishments. Damn satisfied. But with each goal I set and achieved, my self-standards grew bigger. I climbed the career ladder, left an unsatisfying marriage, quit smoking, ran several marathons, became a personal trainer, returned to university, and moved up in real estate. I’m a pusher. A pusher of self. Sometimes, I think I push a little to hard, but I’d rather push too hard than not at all.
I’ve turned my life completely around, but I struggle now to find balance. I know how to work, but relaxing eludes me. I don’t know how to just be. I don’t know contentment. Maybe that’s the reason I’m attracted to a pot smoking YouTuber. Maybe I’m yearning for a little carefree immaturity. Then again, maybe I’m just horny.
I push and I push and I push some more. Cause I’m a pusher baby, so why don’t ya kill me.