That great whooshing sound you heard this morning was not, contrary to gut instinct, the sound of your paycheck flying out a window but the sound of the work week as it hurtled past your disbelieving ear drums and into the tired landscape that is the past.
And here it comes. Here comes the weekend.
Remember how magical weekends used to be?
Growing up, everyone knew that Saturday night was, according to Sir Elton, “all right for fightin’”, even as we knew that the Bay City Rollers would always be there, plaid trousers and suspenders, urging us along: “S-A-T-U-R! D-A-Y! Night!” The music was there to guide us, to push us into love, into large gatherings, into ridiculous displays of air guitar and lip synching…
Ladies and gentlemen! Behold the modern miracle that is the iPod!
Surely it’s accepted, world-wide, that the morning’s playlist on a Friday portends the future?
As Grandma used to say, Oh, Pearl. We don’t worry about that.
Step It Up by The Bamboos
Punkrocker by the Teddy Bears, featuring Iggy Pop
Collapse by Soul Coughing
Love Long Distance by Gossip
McFearless by Kings of Leon
On the Take by Bridge Club
Black Soul Choir by 16 Horsepower *
Exactly. I’m going to need a mirrored disco ball, several pairs of very tight pants, several good friends who know how to keep their mouths shut, and a list of excuses available by noon on Sunday...
Which reminds me…
I’m planning my next sick day.
I mean, I don’t want to waste my time actually being sick.
These things take planning, after all.
I’m not a willy-nilly kind of gal, despite what you may have heard; and there’s no reason to rush into things. After all, with a light at the end of the tunnel, one can endure much.
But what do I call in with? What kind of sick am I?
I had the real Swine Flu just last fall, so that’s out. Faking that requires almost four full weeks of sallow-faced, furrow-browed commitment.
Who's got that kind of energy?
And I’m not interested in recreating the Great Chicken Pox Hysteria of the mid-80s, either – a condition wherein three out of four co-workers came in with real Chicken Pox, causing me to break-out in a rash resembling yet totally unrelated to a pox.
Turns out I'm suggestible.
No, I need something small yet urgent, something that wouldn’t require a doctor’s note – or even a doctor’s appointment – but that would keep me out of the office for a day or two.
If I lost a toe, would that sound suspicious? I broke one once. Of course, I was rather drunk at the time, apparently too drunk to be concerned about the excruciating pain inflicted by the chick on the dance floor with four-inch heels, an excruciating pain that magically disappeared with a couple shots of tequila. In the morning, however, the pain returned and that’s when I discovered the fat purple slug that had replaced my baby toe.
Hmm. OK. No toe abuse.
What about a collapsed lung? Too dramatic? You know, the more I think about it, the less excited I am about this one. While there may actually be a sudden and organic reason for a lung collapsing, I just don’t look like someone who’s lung might do that.
How about the vapors? Is that really a medical condition or is it code for passing gas? I hate to call in claiming flatulence. Do you think I dare call in with “the vapors”, or is that just a good way to get a drop-in from HR?
I think I'm going to sit on this one for a while.
There's no rush. Like I said, as long as there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, one can endure much.
* Not getting enough moody banjo in your life? Dig the 16 Horsepower.