| | On Mondays because of the art museums being closed I usually wander up and down the aisles at the home store and pretend the various hardware items are modern art. With a slight lapse of lucidity I can read all kinds of meaning into the objects. All that is missing are those little white cards with the title of the piece and the name of the artist.
On Tuesdays, well, you know where I am. You've seen me there.
Wednesdays are my day to stay home and wish I could go out. I could, but for the fact I spend Wednesdays at home wishing I could go out.
By Thursday I am so glad to get out it doesn't matter what I do. Wherever I go, whatever I do, it's great just to be out doing anything.
Friday comes and I'm preoccupied with the upcoming week end. The day flies by while I savor the anticipation. I can hardly get to sleep before 9 PM.
Saturdays drag on. The regret of having wasted Friday thinking of Saturday weighs heavily on my sense of purpose in life. I'm not one to make every moment count, but a whole day wasted, that's excessive.
Sunday is divided into sections of about sixty minutes each. These hours, as I call them, get assigned to various practical chores that I put off the preceding Sunday. In turn, I consider whether the chores actually can't wait another week. They mostly can.
This leaves only the magical and secret 8th day of each week to spend on dating, love, romance, sex, and social climbing. That is always a day well spent, and one which I am glad can reliably sap my strength, making it easy to sleep long and hard.
Then it's Monday again, and the circle is complete. |
