I feel like what I imagine nuns feel like on Valentine’s Day
It’s that time of the week again when excitement floats through the air like vape rings on a college campus. Just the word is enough to unleash a flock of butterflies in the belly: Friday. Even a cringe-inducing ditty by a 13 year old girl with all the confidence and none of the chops (at the time) couldn’t dull its sparkle. Everybody’s working for the weekend — even people like me, self-employed freelancers who ditched the 9–5 for the privilege to work 24 hours a day, 7 days a week doing a mix of things we love and things we hate.
Working for myself as a writer, you would think this day would be like any other day to me. You would be sorely mistaken. I no longer partake in corporate society’s Friday festivities. I don’t collect a steady paycheck or look forward to the next two days off (Sidenote: what kind of person needs 24 hours of free time, let alone 48? Six hours off in my sleep is already too much *eye tick*). Even so, I can appreciate the TGIF vibes. Not unlike when a friend gets engaged, has a baby, takes a salaried new job, or does one of the other things that, as my mother likes to put it, “successful, functioning adults” do, I give a big like and get hyped when I see my friends posting #fridayfeelings posts on Facebook.
My Fridays look much like the other six days of my work week, but everything gets done with a bit more gusto. Normally, sifting through 1000 emails is a tear-jerking task, but on Friday, it’s fun. Writing through the drudge of an assignment I started yesterday would make me want to hurl my laptop out the nearest window if yesterday was Wednesday, but because yesterday was Thursday, today is Friday, so this, too, is fun. Even my least favorite parts of the day such as going on a slashing spree and killing those darned darlings in my WIP and promoting my work on social media suddenly make me sing on the sixth day of the week. It’s like my subconscious reverts back to a time, long gone, when Friday signified stress relief and catching up on sleep.
The same thing happens when a snowstorm barricades my front door. Work is home and home is work. But someone, somewhere has the day off. And that puts a skip in my step as I get up, slip on my work pajamas, fire up the laptop, and plow through my emails with tears streaming down my face — tears not of sadness, but inexplicable joy.
Today, every newsletter from my fellow solopreneurs who are definitely not going easy on the grind ceremoniously declares: “Happy Friday!” I open the draft for my own newsletter. “Happy Friday,” I begin. “Hope everyone’s enjoying their day off!” I finish the update, send, take to Twitter next. “Happy Friday, Hope everyone’s enjoying their day off! I know I’m not… #writerproblems.” Sometimes I feel like I live three lives: the one my fellow writers see, the one my readers see, and the one people in real life see. But today is Friday, a good day, I’ll save my downward spiral for Monday.