There are still people out there who see a four-day weekend as an opportunity to “catch up.” Psychopaths. Beings capable of doing planks on a Thursday morning in May, while the birds are singing and the whole world smells like sunscreen and warm brioche. Not us. We’ve decided to celebrate the greatest social invention since salted butter: doing absolutely nothing. Finally. Sleeping until your face is embossed with the patterns of your bedsheets. Lounging in pajamas at noon like a bankrupt aristocrat. Staring at the ceiling with the intensity of a Greek philosopher on anti-anxiety meds.
Because let’s face it: we’ve been turned into human toasters. Always optimizing. Always rushing. Cardio. Emails. Steamed vegetables. Mandatory museum visits. Podcasts that explain how to become a better version of yourself when you don’t even have the strength to be the current version. Well, no. This weekend, you have the right to have sex at 3:42 p.m. for no particular reason. To Stay in bed afterward. To order pasta. To reinvent the world between two overripe strawberries and a pitcher of white wine.
And frankly, what political victory is more magnificent than disappearing for a few days from the great circus of productivity? No more producing. No more performing. No more "maximizing your potential." That phrase alone makes you want to lie on a rug and watch a ceiling fan spin for six hours. The human body wasn't designed to respond to Slack notifications while eating organic almonds in an Uber. It was designed to bask. To kiss necks. To explode with laughter. To implode in a climax. To doze in the sun like a 1970s Italian movie star.
So yes, enjoy it. Go out if you want. Or, better yet, don’t. Watch silly movies. Netflix was made for exactly that. Eat things that stains. Let the athletes run around the canal with their smartwatches and their gross, veiny calves. You have better things to do: exist slowly. Breathe. Listen to someone laughing in the next room. Feel fresh sheets against your legs. The modern world hates that. The modern world wants people who are tense, profitable, and trackable. What a joy to become momentarily untraceable.
And deep down, the truth is this: we are elegant animals on borrowed time. We pretend to have schedules while we all drift slowly toward the great final void, like secondary characters in a Marco Ferreri film. So we might as well turn the wait into a soft, delicious party. Might as well slow down. Might as well love each other a little. Or Immensely. Might as well stay in bed with someone you still desire. Or alone. Which is sometimes the ultimate luxury. Peacefully. Without goals. Without challenges. And of course, beautifully shod. Because - you never know - a friend might call you to go enjoy some sangria or discover a new tapas bar.
