Friday, the culmination of a disasterous week. The fifth in a series of long days and short nights. The ending of a vicious cycle otherwise known as a work week.
Friday. The word evokes so many thoughts and feelings and emotions and memories.
In high school, Friday was synonymous with football games and half-time shows. Cold, clear nights under the dark sky wearing a dorky polyester uniform and white cotton gloves. Ignoring the game to make fun of the cheerleaders, going to the bathroom in groups (because for some reason, people liked to attack solitary band members), and eating blueberry creme life savers suckers that only cost 10 cents from the snack bar. Come rain, sleet, snow, or drought--the Alleghany High School Band would be in the stands, ready and waiting to perform the best half-time show that 200 kids on a football field can.
In college, Friday usually began my workweek (or merely continued it). When you're a poor college student with rent to pay, working full-time at an internship and supplementing your income with two part-time jobs, Friday loses all real meaning. Some of the best Fridays, though, were in the early spring at the Palace of Auburn Hills doing event revenue. There would be so much excitement in the air as people flocked from all over the metro-Detroit area (and parts far beyond) to see basketball games and concerts.
After college, when the real world began, and Friday became the end of a means. Until this point, I don't believe that I ever appreciated Friday's for what they were--the beginning of two days of unhibited freedom from the three-walled cubicle that I occupy for 8-10 hours per day, 5 days per week. Lately, I begin counting down to Fridays first thing Monday morning, 8:15am sharp.
On Friday, it's imperative that I be out the door at 5pm, so I rush through the day...but why? There's nothing great out there waiting to happen to me on Friday. I don't have plans to meet friends or a significant other for dinner or drinks. The only reason I can really see myself barreling headfirst out the door on Friday is because, if I have to sit in that chair, or look at my computer much longer, I truely do believe that I will go insane.
Work has become a weird form of Chinese water torture. Monday is the beginning--the spontaneous drips that, after time, begin to annoy you. Tuesday, the drips and drops lose their randomness and begin to form a pattern of sorts--one that you can ALMOST figure out, but which continues to elude you. Wednesday, well, the drops do form a pattern, and the rate begins to increase slightly. Thursday the pattern begins to thrum inside your head with each drop on your skin, and you begin to think that if you can only survive ONE MOR DAY, everything will be okay. You'll be okay. Finally, Friday arrives--the water is still there, dripping in the same inane pattern, speeding up--and you can feel your nerves tingling, your heart rate increasing, and you begin counting down in ernest now--only 5 more hours--3.5 hours--1 hour--until the water stops, and silence reigns supreme inside your brain. You think, "I'm free--I did it! I survived, and now I have two whole days to live a life that I want to live."
Funny, for a whole week I look forward to the little break between the end of one and the beginning of another. Two days away from the torture, the dripping water, the noisy thoughts that crowd out sane thoughts.
But after a day, the silence is too much. The boredom sets in, and free time isn't as enjoyable because it misses the structure of a work day. If the hours aren't segmented and tasks aren't accomplished, then time is wasted. Without structure, I begin to falter and lose the ability (and desire) to even venture into the outside world. I have tasks to do, but no motivation to do them. I like my freedom, but I'm unsure of what to do with it, how to enjoy it, or how to structure it to maximize my fun-time.
I'll never be able to be a hippy, and that makes me sad.
