My Dearest Weekends,
I’m writing this letter with utmost regret. I’m afraid the time has finally come to bid you adieu. I’ve been avoiding this day for as long as possible, but the tiny dictators who rule the rest of my life have decided to play soccer this spring. So, my dear old friend, we must say good-bye.
My sweet Weekends, you’ve been a constant in my life. A warm friend that I welcome every Friday with open arms. However, I’d be remiss not to note how drastically our relationship has transformed with time. Every season and every year slowly changed what we once were.
In college, you seemed to last three to four days, especially in the later years when I could strategically schedule classes to keep you around as long as possible. You consisted of football games, day drinking before delicious rosé ever graced my palate, and long afternoons by the pool. Sure, there were the occasional stress-filled Sundays cramming for a final or finishing a paper, but you always pulled me through.
When the real world came knocking on my door all too soon, it was you that helped me survive. Through my first job as a glorified receptionist in a hostile work environment, knowing you were around the corner kept me making coffee, answering phones, and smiling through gritted teeth. You were there for all my major life moments. Every date with my future husband. Every hangover caused from no longer being in my early 20s but still acting like it. Reunions with college friends, spontaneous getaways, wedding parties, lazy days sleeping in. Through thick and thin, we’ve been through it all.
Eventually, the wedding parties turned into baby showers, and one by one the tiny dictators arrived, threatening our relationship. But we rallied through, for you and I had been through far too much to lose each other completely. Birthdays at bars have morphed into birthdays at Chuck E. Cheese’s, but for the most part we’ve prevailed. We still dominate with brunches and hikes; my husband can golf and I can squeeze in a long run. Spontaneous getaways take a bit more planning, but they can still happen . . . that is, until the fateful day in March when it all comes to an end.
I know I may sound dramatic. Yes, the soccer games will only be 45 minutes each; one on Saturday morning and the other on Sunday afternoon, flanking you like armed guards would a hostage. But alas, my dear Weekends, this is clearly the beginning of the end. I wanted to manage expectations and cut ties now while we are still on good terms. For we both know this is a slippery slope leading straight to full days at the ball field, traveling to tournaments, and becoming (gasp) a soccer mom.
I take comfort in knowing this will become my new normal, and with time the pain of losing you will ease. I love my children, so naturally their love (and naps) will fill the void left by you. I also know that this goodbye is not forever. My dearest Weekends, we will meet again. You may not recognize me, as I’m sure to have more wrinkles (or maybe a tighter face due to Botox) and dyed hair to hide the greys, but we will be reunited.
Until then, I’ll cherish the memories we’ve made. It’s been a fun ride, Weekends.
Love always and forever,