Sometimes I think weekends exist out of time.
I lose track of what day (and often hour) it is. After a week of blow-drying my hair every morning and almost getting eaten by my diffuser, my hair sits atop my head in a ponytail or (if I’m feeling really ratty) a topknot. I begin to call a cookie a meal. The miracle of brunch makes alcohol acceptable before noon. And since I don’t yet have my company-issued phone, I’m not instantaneously accessible to my colleagues.