Saturdays are my favorite. I want them back.
Recovering from Relocation Depression, one perfect Saturday at a time.
My idea of a perfect Saturday involves sleeping in, a good book, a walk with my dog, a really good family dinner. Maybe a phone call with my daughter, my sister, or my dad. Or all three. A late movie with Kevin when the house has settled down. Minimal screen time.
Or maybe a day trip somewhere.
Or maybe some kind of community event.
I know that Sunday is the traditional day of rest, but for me, it’s all about Saturday. Sunday is too close to back-to-the-grind. I appreciate Sunday, but I can’t relax into it the way I can Saturday.
But lately, my Saturdays (and Sundays, for that matter), look exactly like every other day of the week. A whole lot of work. And anything else that might happen comes with a huge dose of guilt that I’m not working.
Part of that is a reaction to making a cross-country move and being away from what feels familiar to me. One way my psyche has responded to that is with anxiety over making sure that I make enough money to keep us afloat.
Anxiety, even though I’m not struggling to make enough money.
