This week felt like one of those weeks that did not necessarily contain one enormous event, yet by the time Sunday arrived, I realised how much had actually been packed into it. Work, responsibilities, little errands, conversations, tiredness, plans squeezed between everything else—just ordinary adult life doing what it does best and somehow making seven days feel both incredibly long and suspiciously fast. By Saturday, my day off, I was more than ready to temporarily resign from being productive and concentrate on considerably more important matters: good food, Jan, friends, games, and buying small things that served absolutely no practical purpose except making me happy.

I started my little treat-yourself mission with food, because apparently self-care becomes much easier to understand when there is bubble tea involved. I had a Taiwanese bubble tea from No. 9, creamy and sweet with those little pearls waiting at the bottom, and a soft steamed bun that disappeared much faster than I would like photographic evidence to suggest. There is something about buying yourself a snack simply because you fancy it that feels wonderfully uncomplicated. No celebration required, no achievement unlocked, no justification prepared for a committee. I wanted it, so I had it, and adulthood occasionally deserves to be that straightforward.

Somewhere during the day, I also found myself browsing little shops and picking up things that made absolutely no contribution to my professional development, financial portfolio or general maturity, which naturally meant I loved them. I bought myself some fidget-type toys and cute little trinkets, including the sort of cat-themed things that seem specifically designed to defeat whatever remaining resistance I have to unnecessary purchases. Put a tiny cat face on something and apparently all financial reasoning briefly leaves my body.

One of my finds was a cute Mofusand character toy, the sort of little object that serves almost no essential function and therefore somehow provides enormous joy. I also found a pink lucky-cat keychain complete with tiny charms, because clearly my collection of cat-related possessions had not yet reached the legally required amount. I like little things like these more than I probably admit. Perhaps there is something soothing about having something small to fiddle with when the mind is busy, but I also think I simply enjoy objects that are playful. Adulthood already gives us enough serious things to carry; I see no harm in occasionally carrying a ridiculous little cat as well.

I even wandered among old books and records for a while, which was its own kind of pleasure. There is always something fascinating about second-hand shelves because everything has already belonged to somebody else’s story before it enters yours. Old records stacked tightly together, books with slightly worn covers, titles you would never deliberately search for but suddenly find yourself picking up because they look interesting—browsing places like that reminds me how enjoyable it is to discover something without an algorithm recommending it first. Sometimes curiosity should be allowed to choose.

The main event of Saturday, however, was my date with Jan. After a busy week, there is something particularly comforting about getting dressed, leaving the house together and having an actual meal where neither of us needs to think about whatever is waiting on the other side of the weekend. We went to The Bricks Kitchen & Bar, an Italian restaurant, and for a while our most urgent responsibility was deciding what to eat, which is exactly the level of crisis I prefer on a day off.

The food did not disappoint. There was calamari on the table, a baked pasta dish nearby, and my plate arrived with beautifully cooked fish resting over vegetables and potatoes with lemon on the side. It was one of those meals where you initially intend to behave normally but then spend an unreasonable amount of time taking photographs because the plate looks too good to disturb. Eventually hunger wins, as it always should.

And then came dessert, because I firmly believe that if you have already committed to a proper Saturday date, stopping before dessert is simply poor project management. Ours arrived covered in chocolate, dusted generously with icing sugar and finished with a little mint on top. At that point, any earlier intention of practising restraint had officially left the building. I regret nothing.

I have come to appreciate dates like this with Jan more as the years pass. They do not always need to involve travelling somewhere extravagant or planning something elaborate. Sometimes it is simply sitting across from each other at a restaurant, talking about ordinary things, sharing food and being temporarily removed from the routines that normally surround us. Long relationships are built from far more of these moments than dramatic romantic gestures. Love eventually becomes very practical, but I think that is part of its beauty. It is making time when both people are busy, remembering what the other person likes, checking whether they have eaten, listening to the same story twice and still choosing each other’s company when a free Saturday finally appears.

The day could easily have ended there, but Saturday still had another chapter waiting. Later that evening, friends came over to our house, and suddenly our quiet day transformed into one of those wonderfully chaotic nights where everyone is talking over one another and something completely ridiculous becomes far funnier than it has any right to be.

We played Jackbox, which is probably one of the fastest ways to discover exactly how questionable your friends’ sense of humour really is. At some point there were scores on the screen, absurd answers being submitted, accusations flying around the room and everyone trying far too hard to win games whose outcomes would have absolutely no impact on our lives. Naturally, this did not prevent us from becoming unnecessarily competitive.

Apparently I ended up somewhere near the top of one of the games while Jan occupied another impressive position, which meant the evening briefly became an intellectual sporting event in my head. There is something hilarious about seeing everyone’s names displayed on a scoreboard after spending several rounds writing nonsense. Nobody receives a trophy, nobody becomes richer and by the following morning nobody really cares who won, but for those few minutes the stakes somehow feel enormous.

Those are the evenings I think I will remember more than I expect. Friends sitting around our house, drinks and snacks on the table, someone laughing before they can finish whatever they are trying to say, another person insisting their answer deserved more points, and everyone temporarily forgetting whatever adult responsibilities were waiting outside the room. Nothing particularly monumental happened, but perhaps that is precisely what makes memories like this so important.

We spend so much of adulthood waiting for the big moments. Holidays, birthdays, promotions, weddings, achievements, major trips and all the things that look important when arranged into photographs. Yet most of our actual lives happen between them. They happen on random Saturdays when somebody comes over to play games. They happen over Italian food with your partner. They happen while holding bubble tea, opening a silly little toy or standing in a shop debating whether you really need another cat-shaped object when both you and your bank account already know how the argument will end.

I think I am becoming increasingly protective of those ordinary pleasures. Maybe it is age, maybe it is simply experience, but I no longer believe every good day has to accomplish something. Rest does not always need to prepare us for more productivity. Fun does not need to teach us a lesson before it becomes worthwhile. Sometimes a Saturday is allowed to exist simply because we were happy inside it.

There is still something worth learning from that, though. I spend a large part of my week functioning according to responsibility. Work needs concentration. Life requires organisation. There are decisions, schedules and things that genuinely matter, and I am grateful for a life that gives me purpose. But I also need moments when my brain is allowed to stop behaving as though everything is urgent. Apparently, sometimes the antidote is fish and calamari, a ridiculous Jackbox answer and a tiny cat keychain.

Maybe balance is not this beautifully symmetrical life where work, rest, relationships and personal time receive equal portions every day. Real balance seems messier than that. Some weeks belong heavily to work. Some days disappear into responsibilities. Then occasionally you get a Saturday that gives something back, and instead of analysing whether you have earned it, you simply receive it.

Looking back at the photographs from this week, I like how ordinary they are. A bubble tea cup. A half-eaten bun. Friends sitting around the house. A ridiculous game scoreboard. A restaurant wall. Fish on a blue plate. Chocolate dessert. A little box containing something cute. A pink cat keychain. Old books and records waiting to be discovered. None of them would explain my entire life to anyone, but together they tell me exactly what that Saturday felt like.

Perhaps that is why I photograph these things. Not because every cup of bubble tea deserves documentation or because future generations desperately need visual evidence of what I ordered for dinner, but because photographs become small anchors. Months later, I might see one and remember the conversation happening just outside the frame, who was sitting beside me, what we laughed about or how tired I had been before that day finally gave me somewhere to rest.

Sunday has arrived now, and with it comes that familiar awareness that another week is waiting. There will be work again, alarms, responsibilities, things to remember and probably several moments when I wonder how it is somehow already evening. But I am starting this one with the residue of a good Saturday behind me, and perhaps that is enough.

I had time with Jan. I ate good food. Friends filled our house with laughter. We played silly games and took them far too seriously. I bought myself tiny things simply because they made me smile. Somewhere between a bubble tea, an Italian meal, a cat trinket and a television full of Jackbox characters, my week found its softer ending.

Maybe self-care does not always need candles, silence and profound introspection. Sometimes it is allowing yourself to be unserious for a few hours. It is buying the plushy. Ordering dessert. Inviting friends over. Laughing too loudly. Sitting beside the person you love and enjoying a meal without checking what needs to be done next. It is remembering that a life filled with responsibility still needs room for play.

And perhaps that is my little Sunday reminder to myself before another week begins: a meaningful life is not built only from the things we achieve. It is also built from the people we make time for, the laughter that happens without planning, the meals we linger over and the ridiculous little objects we bring home because they make an ordinary day feel slightly more ours.

This week was busy, but Saturday reminded me that I am allowed to enjoy the life I work so hard to build. Sometimes the reward is not something enormous waiting at the end of a difficult season. Sometimes it is already sitting quietly in front of you—a plate of good food, friends in your living room, Jan beside you, and a tiny cat trinket that you absolutely did not need but are very pleased you bought anyway.

With love,

Anj ♥