The lost day
Have you ever been jetlagged? Travelling across time zones in a short amount of time, yet being expected to adjust to the fact that you’ve either gained or lost several hours of your day? It’s not sensible. I’ve travelled across our vast and glorious country, from the East Coast to the far West Coast. It’s pretty cool how you can spend seven hours on an airplane, yet land — according to the clock — only an hour after leaving the rugged shores of home.
Not so cool is when I’m ready to crash for the night and it’s only 5 o’clock on the lush West Coast.
Coming back home is much harder — the same seven hours of flying, yet I left on one day and, again, according to that pesky clock, didn’t get home until the next. To top it off, when you land back on terra firma in Terre-Neuve, you’re usually expected to pick right up where you left off like nothing happened.
My body doesn’t work like that. I can usually be found dragging myself around, feeling like my eyes are filled with concrete and it’s hard to keep them open. That lasts a good seven days, for sure.
This past weekend, however, I found myself facing a different adjustment. Friday morning, a colleague in Halifax reminded me that we had Monday off as a family day. I had known this before but my aging brain didn’t retain it, so the unexpected long weekend was a pleasant surprise.
Well, Friday evening and Saturday turned out to be very busy, with hardly a minute to breathe. On Sunday morning, given a rare opportunity to sleep in, I awoke to brilliant sunlight streaming in through the windows.
It took a few minutes to get my bearings — no I hadn’t slept in and no, I wasn’t late for work. No, it wasn’t summer sun with the anticipation of tea on the warm patio after breakfast, and no, it was not Saturday as my mind was struggling to have me believe.
With enough sense to realize that I had two more free days ahead of me, of course it was Saturday, it must be.
The past few weeks had been busy, so with two days off without anywhere to be or anything major to get done, I was determined to pack up my paints and head around the bay for a little quiet time with the brushes. I had planned that on Friday after being reminded of the long weekend. But for some reason on Sunday morning, my mind could not adjust.
I ate breakfast, packed an overnight bag, gathered up the pup, got my road-trip latte and hit the highway, all the while being reminded it was Sunday but still convinced it was Saturday.
It was long-weekend jetlag, without the jet, and instead of losing a few hours, I’d lost an entire day!
Writing this column on Sunday evening, I knew full well that Monday would be a bizarre day where I’d constantly feel like I should be at my desk.
Like most people, I welcome a long weekend — it’s anticipated more than birthdays — but because this holiday had been forgotten about, I just can’t seem to accept it. So all this week it will feel like I’ve lost a day. Come Friday, I’ll likely be in a spin trying to get all my work done.
With any luck, however, the four-day week will fly by, and before I can blink, it’ll be real Saturday again and this time, it will be appreciated all the more.