1,820 Saturdays.
That is the amount of Saturdays I have left if I’m lucky to make it to the average age of an American male.
2,210 Saturdays. That’s how many I’ve had.
Roughly. I know math is scary for a lot of people. (My father, a former highschool math teacher, had shirts made that said “It’s okay to like math.” He’s a huge dork, but he’s right in this case. But I digest.) I’m not scared of math, but I might do it too much. Like counting how many Saturdays are left. Well, not counting. But estimating sometimes.
Because.
While listening to one of my favorite podcasts (The Flophouse) they answered a question about what kind of movie their parents' would be likely to keep on TV on a Saturday afternoon.
And this floored me. I cannot remember the last time I sat around watching TV to begin with, and never with the idea of “just watching what’s on.”
And that’s a shame. It’s a shame that I’m scared of “”wasting time"" on things like watching a movie. Or relaxing. I have unintentionally exiled the “Lazy Afternoon” from my vocabulary.
Sure, I have a baby at home, but even before his birth, the idea of not doing something “”productive"" felt like a waste. Games are played so I can work on my own development. Books are read so I write better. I can’t watch a movie. I don’t make movies.
And that’s a sad way to live. I need to fix that.
But there’s a burning feeling inside of me to work, work, work.
What is Saturday, anyway?