When you freelance, like I do, weekends don’t seem to take on the same importance as they do when you have a full time job.
As long as I make my deadlines, I can do all the chores usually reserved for Saturdays and Sundays, any day of the week I please. As long as I make all my deadlines, I can go for a walk, do pilates, visit with a friend, have a manicure or read a book at any time during the day. Unless I have a client meeting, I never have to ‘dress for success’. I can work in jeans, sweats and, for that matter, my jammies. But despite all the freedom I have, I do look forward to Sundays; and my delivery of the Sunday New York Times.
My parents had it delivered, so it’s a ‘ritual’ I grew up with.
In winter, when I become a recluse, there’s nothing I like better than collecting it from the mat outside my door and getting back into bed — where I stay for hours — with a huge mug of tea (don’t make coffee at home) and the entire newspaper, spread out all around me. Not the easiest thing to do when you have cats, mind you. They don’t like being ignored — even when they’re ignoring Continue reading