Monday, March 17, 2008

Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy

If weekends had themes, that would be mine.

I love how on Friday afternoon, I'm sitting at my desk at work smugly thinking about what a good girl I'm going to be this weekend, how I'm going to be productive for once, not sleep half the day and then party all night, but actually catch up on the laundry and stock the fridge with leafy green things and finally crack open that scrapbook that I got for Christmas 2003.

And that fantasy lasts until the clock strikes 5, and I'm out the door and hopping into the back of someone's pick up, headed for trouble instead of for home. I get half baked, then fully baked, and then everything goes to hell, straight to hell, not even a stopover in slightly-naughty-but-still redeemable land. Damn.

You have to take an awful lot of cubicle-naps to atone for all the sleep-debt accrued during wild & crazy weekends, but the thing about the work week is, it's so fucking short! No matter how many times you manage to curl up under your desk, you're never fully recovered from the last weekend before the next one hits you square in kisser! I know that people don't often argue on this side of the fence, but from where I'm sitting, it seems to be true.

I love Mondays, but the truth is, when you're sitting there with your forehead resting on a pile of paperwork, one eye mercifully closed while the other one watches the clock (and it's not quite 10am), and your head pounds from the remnants of the juiced-up-techno version of a song that was never quite good to begin with but still got an awful lot of play at the bar on Saturday night and you're picking at the rub-on not-so-temporary tattoo from the grog-fuelled pirate party you attended on Sunday but you're already planning Thursday night's drunk run while not quite ruling out the possibility of Monday night festivities because honest to blog, if you survive this day, you'll deserve a drink or 8 - well, that's when you know that something along the way got effed up.

The 5 day work week is just not natural, and the idea of a mere 2-day weekend is just absurd. Weekends are so laughably abbreviated that you absolutely must do your best to squeeze every last drop of potential fun out of them (sometimes to your own detriment, and certainly to your liver's), which leaves you with no time at all for the resting, which is the key to not dying, so I'm told. By the time Monday rolls around, I'm thankful to go to work for 8 solid hours of not-partying, even if I have to chug several "breakfasts of champions" (Special K and Redbull) to get me there.

Oh, I bitch, but the truth is, once I get over the initial shock that fluorescent lighting and water coolers inevitably give, I start to get in the zone pretty quickly, and by 2pm on Monday, my knee starts jiggling under my desk, bopping around, looking for a beat that it's just not getting from my coworker's top-40 radio habit. And this week, god bless it, is even worse (or better, depending how dehydrated you are) than usual: Monday is St Pat's, so of course there will be going-outage, and since we're off on Friday for some vague Jesusy reason, Thursday night becomes the default "fuck yeah we're done work!" night, leaving only 3 hangover-hazy days in the middle for gossip, scheming, and of course - dialysis.

Oh, I like to complain, but obviously I'm enjoying myself. Like, really enjoying myself. 2008, after all, is to be Year of Me. And after the suckage that was 2007, at least for the most part (otherwise known as Year of Complete Horseshit), I think I deserve it.

Rum and coke tastes an awful lot like freedom.

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