It’s Friday morning, and after you’ve consumed your $2.50 coffee from the local café du jour and are adequately settled in your desk, you’re ready to make plans for the night…err I mean work. You send a mass text, several instant messages, and possibly a group email to your nearest and dearest.
You and your friends begin brainstorming potential restaurants, bars, times, and whose home will be the point of assembly. You start getting anxious for the workday to end so that you can bust the hell out and get your drink on and ring in the weekend. What the hell are you going to wear?? Should you go shopping instead of eating a midday meal (extra calories)?
However, the post lunch lethargy starts to weigh a little harder as the afternoon grinds away. The thought of socialization with your friends, let alone the general public causes a pang of regret in the deepest part of your core.
Maybe you should just stay in and pay attention to your neglected DVR…maybe Lifetime has something worthwhile on deck…NO NO NO! You’ll rally; you’ll get your shit together; you’ll get that second wind. As 5pm becomes more of a reality you begin to pump yourself up, psyche yourself out. TONIGHT IS GOING TO BE GREAT.
Traffic really puts you over the edge, and by the time you fight the street slog and find your way home, you’re toast. The couch has been waiting for you all day with outstretched cushions and the television remote is glowing, ready to be your beacon of bliss for the evening. You’re about to pick up your phone to tell the gang you’re not going to make it, what with NBC Thursday shows begging to be watched, and a bag of cheesy shit that needs to be eaten immediately, when you remember: you’re not getting any younger or hotter. Sadly, as you get older, you will only become more tired, and less desirable. This depressing thought is enough to propel you into the shower and an outfit.
I used to take great pains in my appearance. I literally couldn’t leave the house without perfectly straightening every strand of my Jew hair and applying just enough black eyeliner that said, “I’m alternative, but totally not emo.” Now I’m like, “I can go with wet hair right?”
Why are Fridays so damn hard? Oh wait, it’s because engaging in a full Puritan work week is seriously exhausting. No wonder those little Pilgrims died at thirty-five. Fifth grade Social Studies lied. It wasn’t the harsh winters; it was their work ethic.
Sure if you end up at dinner it’s great, but the wine makes me sleepy and if we don’t go to a bar right away, I slip into a nighttime coma. Going to “pre-party” (seriously who still does this?) at someone’s house is always a bad idea because they have inviting furniture that reminds me of my own fortress of comfort, and then I just wonder why I am sitting there in heels instead of my own couch without pants.
Whenever I actually make it to the bar on the weekend’s eve, I end up just wanting to sit down at any destination. Standing is difficult. Getting the bartender on his high horse’s attention is exhausting. Talking to your friends isn’t too bad, but you will just see them at brunch the next day. Striking up conversations with new people is out of the question. All I can think about is my bed, and how much I miss it, wondering if it misses me too. My contact lenses get dry, and I start doing this weird unattractive half-closed eye repetitive blinking routine. And sometimes, I actually start doing the college lecture head bob.
“Dude, I can’t keep my eyes open.”
“Um, it’s 11:30pm.”
“Go on without me.”
If I get home on a Friday without having committed plans, I will change into the jammy jams, get comfy, and pray that no one invites me out so that I don’t feel obligated to leave and have a good time. I have this witching hour that can range anywhere from 9pm-12am. If I get invited somewhere during this time, it’s a conundrum. When I was 22, I was so optimistic, up for anything. My mantras included, “live in the moment,” “you never know who you might meet,” and “I might get laid.”
Now that I am 26, Friday nights find me in ridiculous ensembles of old sweats lying in bed thinking, maaaannn I finally got to my favorite disc in Sex and the City, and I didn’t shave my legs. Pass. I still have Saturday night.