My mother can't stand Tuesdays.
Baz Luhurmann would agree with her:
The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that
never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm
on some idle Tuesday.
Mondays give you the benefit of moaning and groaning about it being Monday or braggin' on your weekend. Wednesays are midway through the week. Thursday is so close to Friday, it might as well BE Friday. And Friday's Friday.
But Tuesday? What's Tuesday?
You have to acknowledge my mom's point, and she made it long before Baz every did.
Me? I have come to loathe Wednesdays.
I don't so much hate all of Wednesday. It's Wednesday evening that bothers me.
Since WG and I started our photography class in January, I've gotten a case of the Wednesdays nearly every week. What's a case of the Wednesdays?
Well, let me tell you, and be forewarned, it mostly involves hormones and my own special brand of crazy.
On Wednesdays, WG and I have dinner together in the school's parking lot. We get about 1/2 an hour to eat and talk. Half an hour.
I require nearly an hour to get used to the company of someone who knows me well. Crazy? Uh huh. No doubt about it. But it's true.
So, in half an hour, I hardly have time to register who this person is beside me and why on earth he wants answers to questions like, "Why were you so secretive about the fact that your work didn't reimburse you for the hotel room when we went to Seattle for a library conference in January of 2007?" Huh?! It's a real question, though not worded quite so...oddly. I can hardly get past, "Here's your sandwich, dude," let alone answer difficult questions about something I can't remember that happened over a year ago.
So, the half an hour thing? Not working for me.
Then, we go to class for a couple of hours or so (when we are released from class depends on the whim of our otherwise informative instructor). By the time class gets out, I've just gotten used to WG again, and it's time to kiss goodnight and go our separate ways.
Usually, by the time I've driven back to my apartment, am greeted by a loud orange kitty and have changed into workout clothes or pajamas, I'm often over the feeling of unfulfilled anticipation.
This week was one of the bad ones, though, and it didn't help that I finished reading Marley and Me and cried over a dog I didn't particularly like, but still, a family dog died. What else could I do but cry?
That crying led to other reasons to cry, as a crying jag almost always does, and as Dane Cook so poignantly explains.
I awoke confused as to why my eyes felt heavy and sandy and my chest felt sore. Then I remembered that I'd been crying when I fell asleep. I don't think I've cried myself to sleep in about eight years.
This week, that feeling spilled into Thursday, and I arrived at work not ready to face the public, let alone answer their questions as I walked from my car to the employee entrance (seriously, if that's how annoying it feels to have ONE person nagging me as I walk out in the open air, my already low desire to ever be a celebrity has completely tanked).
I soon realized I didn't have my trusty, pink water bottle, then went upstairs to buy a (no!) plastic disposable bottle of water, only to have several of my dollars soundly rejected by the soda machine, and that made me want to slam doors and stomp down stairs, but I refrained.
And that's what happens when a case of the Wednesdays spills over into Thursday: Soda machines reject me, and I find myself wondering if there's a way I could sometimes just call in crazy and not go to work.