This Saturday afternoon, the sore fingertips on my left hand smell like the acrid, yet pungent combination of sweat and rust. My clothes, a black singlet and white shorts stay unchanged throughout the day, despite the many calls of “shower now”, and my hair is a tousled, disheveled mess that I only find endearing on languid days like this. Hours fly by, spent sitting in front of a black, large screen with a similarly black, obnoxious set of headphones covering my ears. This is my Saturday. The rest of the world can wait.
Saturdays are invisible days. Tomorrow, if I think back about what I did today, I probably wouldn’t come up with anything substantive enough to fill more than a short sentence. However, this is a day which spends most of its existence in the future and the present. It is a day that exists when I am on a Friday looking forward to it, and it definitely exists today as I type this. Like a nice piece of cream cake, memories of it may fade precipitously over time, but that, by far is not a argument towards its frivolousness.
And just like that hypothetical piece of cream cake, this Saturday is the one that is going to make the next week that much easier to digest.