My weekend had a great run. It passed away peacefully Sunday night from natural causes — specifically, Monday approaching at full speed with no intention of slowing down. It was 48 hours old. It is survived by a pile of laundry, three unanswered texts, and a to-do list that will now never be completed.
Funeral services will be held at 8 AM Monday, graveside, at my desk. The eulogy will be delivered by my alarm clock, which has no sympathy and never has. Pallbearers will be my unread emails, carrying the casket of my free time to its final resting place: the work week.
In lieu of flowers, please send coffee — large, black, no judgment — and a three-day weekend, the only known cure. A new weekend arrives Friday, and we will absolutely make the most of it this time. Probably. Maybe. We'll see how tired we are.