It all seems a little less hopeless on a Friday afternoon, when a few short moments are all that stand between you and about 60 hours of freedom from corporate slavery.
As the time ticks closer and closer, you can hear the words to Loverboy's "Working for the Weekend" cranking ever louder over your internal sound system. Someone rushes into your office with a frantic request for a project gone awry. Worry? Nah. We'll leave that for Monday morning. A week's worth of flipped open files and scratched-upon notepads litter your desk. Clean them up? Nah. There'll be time next week to get reorganized.
What joy awaits beyond that virtual finish line of 5 p.m., another marathon work week behind you and sweet recovery ahead. Perhaps a cocktail, a run through the sprinkler with your kid, a date-night at the movies with your honey, a big hunk of ground beef grilling to perfection, poker with your buddies, online thrills with XBox Live, scratching your pooch behind her floppy ears.
Even installing Pergo or mowing the lawn or lugging an old couch to the dump sounds appealing. Because it's work on your terms, at your speed, with the people you love.
As the clock nears 10 p.m. on Sunday, smiles fade. Sighs grow louder. The mind wanders back to that frantic request, that messy desk, and the dread begins to simmer in your gut. You crawl beneath the covers and hope your dreams recap the weekend's fun of yardwork and playtime and rest. Enjoy the last few hours.
Before the shackles go back on and the countdown begins again.
As the time ticks closer and closer, you can hear the words to Loverboy's "Working for the Weekend" cranking ever louder over your internal sound system. Someone rushes into your office with a frantic request for a project gone awry. Worry? Nah. We'll leave that for Monday morning. A week's worth of flipped open files and scratched-upon notepads litter your desk. Clean them up? Nah. There'll be time next week to get reorganized.
What joy awaits beyond that virtual finish line of 5 p.m., another marathon work week behind you and sweet recovery ahead. Perhaps a cocktail, a run through the sprinkler with your kid, a date-night at the movies with your honey, a big hunk of ground beef grilling to perfection, poker with your buddies, online thrills with XBox Live, scratching your pooch behind her floppy ears.
Even installing Pergo or mowing the lawn or lugging an old couch to the dump sounds appealing. Because it's work on your terms, at your speed, with the people you love.
As the clock nears 10 p.m. on Sunday, smiles fade. Sighs grow louder. The mind wanders back to that frantic request, that messy desk, and the dread begins to simmer in your gut. You crawl beneath the covers and hope your dreams recap the weekend's fun of yardwork and playtime and rest. Enjoy the last few hours.
Before the shackles go back on and the countdown begins again.
Comments
The song I hear is usually Bang the Drum All Day by Todd Rundgren. 'Cause I don't wanna work. :)
Sundays are definitely the worst. I have dreaded Sunday late afternoons/evenings since I was probably 8.
What a poetic post, Amy! How you capture weekend moods.