3PM on a Tuesday

This might be the worst, most despicable time of the week. We are just enough in, yet not far enough to see the weekend. For it is the "weekend," that seems to be the ultimate goal to the week, hope a Saturday or Sunday provides, more potential, more freedom; those 48 hours, a sunnier, warmer time. If Monday is cold, Tuesday is luke-warm at best. A bathwater feel as the time lingers on. The day exhausted, yet there is more left, the gas tank has to remain mostly full for there is so much journey ahead.  

I try to be mindful and appreciative of all times, for none has to be better than another, however there is this undeniable connection with the weekend that a person appreciates and looks forward to, only to start all over again the next week. Man wants freedom, we want the availability to make our own decisions, outside of the confounds of this desk, this window, these people, this schedule, yet if I had all the time in the world, work would be my escape. I see the weekend as a taste of what a person wants, something of a delicacy. A “taste,” suffices, it is the best, sweetest part, for saturation of it turns into bitter-sweet resentment laced with chunks of boredom, loneliness, and lack of accountability the structure of the work week provides. Yes, a sample is all one can live on, for a buffet is too much. 

This day, this hour, this feel, I hate this feel, all here, as detrimental as it was last week. The only hope is that there is enough work, enough distraction, enough momentum from the last weekend to carry, neigh, hurl me right through to Thursday afternoon, when the sweet sample of the weekend is once again felt. We stand in line through the week days, waiting, checking, trying to be nice to the other people also waiting, but yet we know what we are all here for, we know the common theme. We want nothing more than to get through this most-necessary component, miss these people, and get to what we want. Yet, here I am on Tuesday afternoon deciding what to do to remedy this lingered, bored feeling, for today feels, so, long.

The sun slowly sets, only to be seen again tomorrow morning, after a relentless routine from now through the AM. For this is what is known as the American work week, and for me, for this job, for the people I am around, it appears to be a means to a weeks end. People seem to appreciate having something to fill these days, provide that responsibility, and provide some of the only structure an adult has left before they are entered into a nursing home, yet damn it the entire time. We are all on board with a shorter work week, which would mean that Tuesday morning would be the new Tuesday afternoon. This time exists no matter what a work week looks like, as if the body knows, as if the mind holds a reservation for resentment this time allows. 

For it is this time, this hour, these few minutes spent typing words, forming ideas from feelings deep within that are both the best and worst times of life. 

If you'd like to pass a little bit of that time reading, I have a self-help memoir about body image disorders, at the least, it is entertaining, at the most, you might discover some things about yourself along the way. Click HERE.