It's Friday, I'm In Love!

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FOUR: The Pauper Stops to Smell the Tranquility

A funny thing happened on my way to work last Friday.  It was 9:45 a.m.  The rush hour morning commute had dwindled enough for me to find a seat at the Belmont Red Line - an impossibility an hour earlier.  And when I arrived at the restaurant, I danced and sang along to "Drunk In Love", which boomed over our loudspeakers as I set the dining room waiting for my red-shirted compatriot to arrive and help.

But in my moments of tranquility before his arrival, it had dawned on me that it was Friday.  This day of the week I once held in such magnificent high regard now appeared to be just another day at the office.  Because I no longer wake up on Monday mornings with this simple thought occurring once my brain registers lucidity: Five More Fucking Days.

There's no longer a day of the week I dread.  I no longer wake up stressed, wondering whether I remembered to accomplish a task at work, and if that meant I would formally get my posterior handed to me on a decorative platter.  There's no more self-loathing in the path I have chosen.

It doesn't escape me that this could be the result of not yet having the opportunity to fall victim to a routine.  Routine is the boner killer of creativity.  But for right now, it's a fantastic feeling to have gone from eating rotted Aldi fruits to fresh peaches bought off the beaches of Ischia.  And perhaps the next time routine befalls me, my senses will be ever so keener to its void.

You would think that without the low lows of Mondays, I could never have the feverish highs people experience at 5:00 on Fridays.  And to that I repeat: dancing and singing along to Beyonce at 10:00 a.m.  At work.