It’s a long weekend, this weekend in Canada. We’re celebrating Victoria Day, which is a celebration of either the capital of British Columbia, a previous Queen of half the planet, or a friend of mine who blogs Victoriously.

Regardless of what we call it, however, it is a celebration of Spring (welcome to Canada) and of drinking beer on patios and at cottages—the May Two-Four weekend, as some of us older folks recall it (commemorating the Canadian single-serving case of 24 bottles).

What makes this year’s version a little odd for me is that for the last year or so, every weekend has been a long weekend, for I am a freelance writer. On any given Monday or Friday, I can choose not to work. Likewise, on any given Saturday or Sunday, you are likely to find me working. Day nomenclature has ceased to hold meaning for me.

For all intents and purposes—and I have plenty of both—the only real difference between a Wednesday and a Saturday is how many of my friends can come out to play at 2 o’clock in the afternoon. And most of my friends are in entertainment, journalism or science, so even that constriction isn’t very strict.

Admittedly, I am less likely to hold an interview for an article assignment on the weekend, but those are few and far between.

Now, my freedom comes at a price…or lack of a price, as the case may be. My pay packet is smaller than it once was. I have no health benefits but what the government gives me (welcome to Canada!). I often have to make myself go for a walk to ensure I get some exercise.

However…I don’t attend meetings. If my boss is an ass, I’m probably looking in the mirror. My commute is maybe two metres. And my drinking problem doesn’t seem to be suffering (phew!).

This morning, I seriously argued with myself as to whether I was going to work on a feature due next week or take my camera out for a walk…and it could have gone either way (I strangely decided to work on my feature).

I have no family about whom to worry or of whom I need to take care, so I understand I have a luxury of options that many feel they cannot afford.

At the same time, I watch many of my responsible friends—typically the ones who can’t come out to play at either 2 o’clock—and see them dig themselves an early grave, fighting to give their families everything except the one thing their families probably want most of all: themselves.

I may die tonight—exercising that drinking problem—or I may live for another hundred years. I don’t know. But either way, I’m not worried about it. I don’t have a timer on things to accomplish.

That’s a nice feeling.

All y’all have a great series of days that may be a weekend!