Why Saturday is the Worst Day of My Week

The Black Dog

I think the main reason that Saturday is the worst day of my week is what makes it the best day for the people closest to me; they have no work and can do whatever they want. So they’re often off doing something as a family. I am family, of course, but I’m not core family, not spouse or child, so unless I’m included for some specific reason, I feel it would be unnecessarily intrusive if I tried to horn my way into things.

Now during the week, I have a lot more opportunity to interact with everybody and that makes me feel useful and more integrated. I can get the mail, and make Kameron lunch, and cook supper for everybody, and then clean up, having time to talk to Susan and Andy about the business of the day. I feel more comfortable with text messaging John during the week, feeling it might lighten his workday. I never know when to message Kenny; being in Florida, his hours are a mystery to me, and I’m not as plugged into what to speak about with him. He calls me.

But on Saturday, I’m pretty much on my own. I might see Andy a few seconds if he brings me my mail or our paths cross if I go out on an errand and he’s working outside. So, what do I have to do? I have thousands of books and dozens of DVDs, all of which I have delved into multiple times. If I’m lucky, I might have something new to read. There’s very little on TV to amuse me. I spend hours, sometimes, sifting through You Tube for anything to distract me. There’s not much there to set the world on fire, and nothing really engaging that lasts very long.

Saturday is the day I am most likely to overeat, through sheer boredom. And even when I have plenty of food and drink it is very dull stuff, not even engaging to cook. And the Ozempic I am taking has affected my taste, which makes even old favorites seem dull and different, or bringing out the worst undertaste of things. So not only I am tempted to overeat, I very seldom enjoy it when I do. In the old days, I could at least anesthetize myself with a batch of chilimac or spaghetti, and then go into a sort of satisfied coma. Such things are contraindicated by my present diet (not to mention the Lenten fast) and would taste terrible thanks to my Ozempic. So bang goes one of my last pleasures in life, and another distraction.

At least during the week I can walk out, catch a bus, and get around town to ‘beat the bounds,’ as it were. Places that are dull and ordinary to most folks are a sort of adventure to me. I can look for toys or DVDs at Walmart, or see if there is anything tempting foodwise at HEB. I get to see some regulars on the bus, especially Mr. Wade, the bus driver. Buses do not run over the weekend. The most I might do on a Saturday is visit the library bookstore (which only works about once every four months and is a bit of a stroll) or walk over to the limited selection at Family Dollar.

Sunday is much better than Saturday, for there is church. Not only is it spiritually fulfilling, but it’s also socially satisfying. Not that I go gad about visiting with one and all, but there are people I am familiar with, Miss Susan who tells me hello every day, as does the old gentleman who sits two pews ahead of me (another cane jockey), and Father Stan, who has a peculiarly European sense of humor and an accent that always makes listening to him an adventure. Even the wailing of babies and toddlers (there is always some) I find oddly comforting as an indication of continuity between generations. There are many others.  I might even get a ride home from Miss Beth or from Gabriel’s family, and that gives me a very friendly occasion to gab a bit. The rest of the day is redeemed and it doesn’t seem so lonely.

But Saturday … Saturday is not much. Nobody needs me, nobody notices me. There is nothing special to do, not even get the mail, which Susan and Andy usually do. I float along like a rather sad single pickle in a jar. I’m writing this on Saturday evening with half an ear listening to the writers and director’s commentary on the Extended Edition of The Two Towers for about the 10^th time. Nice, but not particularly engaging. I might just make a bag of popcorn, quite an indulgence. Rather naughty and unlikely to be pleasurably satiating, but so it goes.