Another Thursday, another Weekend Assignment -- a small fact which in itself has gotten me thinking about the days of the work week. Everyone knows about the idea of "working for the weekend," but I think that gives short shrift to at least five days of the week, each of which has its own personality. With that in mind:
Short and sweet – there's watermelon waiting to be et. Ate-ed up. Consumed. So I'll treat this as though I was still working my old job, because these days, the day of the week I look forward to most often is whatever day my wife has off from work. Such is the excitement in my life. As a house-husband, truth be told, it just might be yours, too.
Back in the old days, though, my favorite day of the week was Hump Day. That's right, Wednesday. In the wintertime, needing to burn off excess accumulated time (what the heck is a vacation, anyway?), I often took Wednesdays off. The rest of the time, it was the light in the tunnel, the offer of a wisp of hope that the life crushing stress I worked under had a respite coming. I often telecommuted on Wednesdays, working on planning documents for the community, writing without interruptions (other than the old “Out 'n' In” -- no, silly, not THAT. Just a trip to el baño to empty the bladder and then to la cuchina for a coffee refill). Interruptions are the bane of most writers and for me, a real braincrusher. Interruptions would take many forms, like walk-ins, phones, political types seeking favors for constituents, (did I mention walk-ins?) and the expectation that, if you're in the office, you have time to come do an inspection now, rather than Friday as scheduled, co-workers wanting to avoid work by shooting the breeze, bosses that sought to pile on more work, because, if you're in the office, you must have time on your hands... Wednesdays offered me the illusion that I might escape all that for at least a day or two.
Alas, reality had a way of crushing hope, and I haven't appendages enough to count the number of weekends I worked, back in the day. Better than drinking myself to death, I suppose, but not nearly as much fun. Mondays were the start of the torture, if I hadn't already worked all weekend. I hated coming in on Mondays. All that work not finished the week before, stacked up on the desk. Work-related phone messages from the machine at home to begin returning. Board of Appeals hearing documents to copy and collate. Bah humbug!
Tuesdays were often a blur of appointments, inspections and field work, with last minute additions for the BOA meeting that night. My Tuesdays often started at six A.M. And ended at nine at night before I made it home.
Thursdays were similar to Tuesdays, but the focus in the office was preparation for the Planning Board meetings. Again, often a late night going until midnight before getting out the door.
Friday was catch-up day. Unless I had a date (rare), it was typical to work until nine or ten in the evening, trying to work through accumulated plans reviews and similar permit requests. Friday was attempt to conclude telephone tag day.
I sometimes miss the structure of my old life. Then I beat my head with a stick while walking across a bed of hot coals with dueling cats battling over the right to gnaw on my scrotum and I come to my senses.
Give my love to Krissy and Athena. Enjoy them while you can – life marches on all too quickly.
P.S. For extra credit, let's see. The Monkees' Saturday's Child came immediately to mind, also the “It's A Beautifyl Day” version. Sunday, Monday or Always? as only Frank Sinatra could sing it. Stormy Monday Blues – Jethro Tull. The obvious Ruby Tuesday by The Rolling Stones. Wednesday Morning - 3 AM by Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel. David Bowie's Thursday's Child should probably hook up with Nancy Sinatra's Friday Child. And that leaves us contemplating our navels, mumbling gibberish into our oatmeal, these lyrics “...something different: peanut-butter bagels and goldfish stew” of Saturday Night by some dude who's name escapes my sieve-like memory.