I worked another weekend, recently; there was another convention, and again I found myself in the chair at home while others were at the show itself; editing, traffic-managing, and filling in the gaps where necessary. This isn’t me complaining about this part of the job, because both it’s part of the job and I knew that when I took it and I actually like this part of the job, in a lot of ways; instead, it’s me being amused that, as the days led up to the Saturday and Sunday I was working, my brain steadfastly refused to believe that I would be working.
I can’t think of a way to better describe the experience than to say that, utterly unusually, I’d find myself at multiple points during the weekend fantasizing about what I’d do with the time off at the weekend, only to then suddenly remember, oh, I have no time off, I’m working this weekend. It’s not even as if I was thinking about doing anything particularly interesting or fun; I’d think things like, oh, maybe I could head down to this store and pick up that thing I was just thinking about, no wait, I have to work. It was as if my subconscious was determined to just cue up different reasons to play that trombone wah-waaaaaahhhhh sound.
What was particularly strange about the experience — beyond the fact that it kept happening across the week leading up to my working weekend — is that I generally don’t think about the weekend in that way at all; I’m not someone who finds myself “working for the weekend,” or even particularly planning what to do on time off, traditionally; and yet, on this one weekend I was going to be stuck in a chair for 10 hours or so a day, it was as if all I could think about were the other things I could be doing.
Of course, as soon as I got a day off again, I did none of those things. Instead, I just collapsed, exhausted, my mind blank when I thought of things I could get up to with the time off stretching ahead of me.