It’s Tuesday. Tuesday is a day with little personality. It’s one of the red headed stepchildren when considering the days of the week. Thursday is the other one.
Mondays are dreaded, signaling the start of another work week, and being the day that is the furtherest from the next weekend. Wednesdays are hump days, giving us hope we’ll make it through the week. Fridays have their own special sobriquet, TGIF, ushering in the weekend. Saturdays and Sundays refresh both the body and the spirit, giving us time to rest, relax, reflect, be made whole with the world around us once again. They are the reasons we survive the rest of the week.
Tuesdays and Thursdays somehow get lost in the shuffle. They just connect the other days of the week to each other. I don’t remember a single person ever telling me how glad he or she was that Tuesday was finally here. No one ever said TGIT, on behalf of either Tuesday or Thursday.
Of course, now being retired, Tuesday is simply another day. As is Monday or Wednesday. In reality, even Saturday and Sunday don’t have the same meaning that they once did. This is one of the greatest challenges to being retired. Knowing, and/or, caring what day of the week it is. But it’s a challenge that I am willing to take on. So far I’m doing o.k. with it.
The only days that mean anything special now are those on which one or another of my pension checks gets transferred into my direct deposit account. Or the days when we have somewhere special to go, or someone special with whom to commiserate. And those days can be, and usually are, random days of the week.
It is another important part of the freedom that one comes to recognize in having made the decision to retire. Maybe the most important part of that decision. We no longer mark the passage of time by the day of the week, but by the significance that each day brings, regardless of which day it happens to be.