The work week used to end on Friday. Consistently. This week, for me, it ended on Wednesday and again on Saturday.
You know what that means: two half-length weekends.
It can get confusing, this business of split weekends. But only because we’ve all agreed that there’s such a thing as a seven-day week.
There isn’t, of course. There’s a unit of time called a day, involving sunrise and sunset, and another called a month that roughly matches the moon’s lap time, but a week?
Next week is four days. Seven of them is pretty close to a month.
Or three days. 10 sets to a month.
Or five days. Six of those gets the man in the moon back to where he started.
There’s only one reason we all agree on a seven-day week: because we all agree on a seven-day week.
It’s the same reason we agree that certain pieces of paper have special value: because they have the word dollar on them. (And because the people across the street value the same pieces of paper as we do.)
That’s not science. That’s faith.
That’s why there’s a restaurant called TGI Friday’s that’s 1) open every day of the week and 2) would be whether the week was two days long or nine.
We all agree it’s a restaurant. Well, most of us.
If you remain captive to the seven-day week, thank your fellow inmates. Great minds think, and don’t think, alike.
This is a country, after all, in which Congress believes it can change time twice a year. It can do this because it can. It can, because the rest of us allow it to do so.
So I won’t try to change your mind about the seven-day week. That would be exhausting.
I will note, however, that tomorrow I rest.