Weekend Wallowing

It’s Sunday morning.  The weekend always presents me with vague feelings of dissatisfaction.  Since I don’t have a “real” job, I tend to just continue working on the weekends, but in a more relaxed way.  I sleep later, and sometimes we go out in the afternoons—take a long hike or go to a play at our tiny local theatre. 

I have this idea that everyone else is having fun on weekends—going out to see people, or entertaining them at home.  Why are we the only ones watching Netflix on Saturday nights?

Yesterday it was cold and rainy most of the day, so that discouraged me from going on a hike.  Around four o’clock it cleared up and I felt we must get out of the house, so we went downtown to our local co-op gallery to see the latest members’ show.  The work of one new artist excited me, but most of the other stuff was as expected, and in fact, a step down for some of the members. 

I am such a phony—I know several of these artists, and I am always complimentary to their faces.  But the work I saw yesterday was definitely not their best.  I suppose a group show brings out the worst, not the best, in people. 

Well, forty-five minutes later, we were back home, ready to have supper and watch Netflix.  So much for Saturday night.

As I sit here feeling sorry for myself, I realize it’s these thoughts that are dragging me down.  Do I do that because I just like to wallow in it sometimes?  Could be.