It's official. Ten years after leaving the world of full time work, the number of days each week that others expect me to be in a specific place at a specific time - two - is the exact reverse of what it was for many years. Put another way, my weekend is now five days, vs. the too-brief two day weekend I endured for about four decades.
My most recently deleted commitment - a day of teaching guitar at a studio I'd been since 2002 - puts Thursday in good company with four other days where my calendar remains blank until I decide to add something. I can indulge my passions, hang out with people I care about, do nothing, without a thought to any schedule. I can exercise or meditate, volunteer or get involved with an activist group, take a nap or a meandering walk, ignoring the clock. I can teach a music class or do social justice work with Beyond Diversity no matter how much I get paid. If I want to.
I don't yearn - yet - for a seven day weekend. But each time and place specific commitment I've been able to shear over these ten years has made me newly grateful for my good fortune.