Growing up, weekends were the best. No school! Play with your friends! From Friday afternoon until Sunday night, life was perfect and commitment-free. Sure, there were sometimes birthday parties or family things or swim meets (in my case) but the happiness of a weekend was still there.
Then you get older. Still no school but you probably had to work on the weekend. A little less fun, but still usually a happier time. Anticipated.
I’ve reached a point where I hate weekends. I don’t work a Monday-Friday job, so Saturday and Sunday are virtually indistinguishable from any other day of the week. I get up, I go to work, I come home. The bus schedules are less convenient, but otherwise… nothing.
But now a weekend means two days of no possible change in our case. No chance that I’ll get word we can book our interview. No chance that anything will change because the people who hold the future of my life in their hands aren’t forced to work on weekends. I have to be accessible to the demands of customers until all hours of the night on weekends. We’re told over and over that its important we don’t hold customers hostage. We need to be not just accessible to them, but have managers available for them to escalate to from 7am until midnight, 7 days a week. Their demands for iPhones and unwillingness to pay their bills must be met instantly, says my employer!
Yet those who control the futures of people undergoing a difficult process only need to work 9-5 on weekdays.
Priorities are pretty messed up in this world.
Counting down the seconds until Monday, when its back to the possibility of progress.
Swooping Away 
Leave a comment