Wednesday can often seem so mildly cruel, jammed in the middle of the week like that. Its arrival indicates the incoming week’s end, but then gently pushes you back into your seat to make sure you know that the week is certainly not over yet. I can imagine Wednesday, loin cloth with a bulbous codpiece, ripped and muscular physique, long flowing hair, glasses, braces and a little acne.
He doesn’t carry the typical barbarian sword of medieval imagination, but a long thin epee that he wields like a cautious Zorro. He is very proficient at making the “W” mark on walls and the rear ends of pants but he makes the “w” very small. It’s a perfect “w”, but you really have to get close, almost with a magnifying glass, to see it. It’s perfect but a nuisance.
He’s also very ineffective. He’ll arrive just in time to save the damsel in distress, but he’ll hem and haw in front of the castle gates trying to find a credit card to pay a locksmith to open the lock before realizing the gate was open the whole time. He’ll stand there, scratching his head as Thursday rides out of the castle on his white steed with the fair centerfold type damsel straddled across his lap.
Wednesday wakes up very early but usually drags his way through the morning, not really excited to do much of anything except get in the way of those of us that really need to move fast to make a train, bus or into work. He’s the one walking very slowly at the head of the rushed crowd, log jamming us into slow moving cattle. He doesn’t realize it of course; he hasn’t had his coffee yet. Plus that loin cloth codpiece makes it hard to move very fast at all; chafes something terrible.
By mid-afternoon, Wednesday really hits his stride by accidentally knocking the clock off the wall. He didn’t mean to do it, but when he picks it up and puts it back he doesn’t realize it set itself an hour earlier than it was. We sit wondering, “I really thought it was two o’clock, felt like two o’clock, but according to that clock, it’s only one. Son of a…”
Wednesday eventually decides it’s time to go home and maybe since it’s hump day, go out and get some mid-week relaxation going; maybe try to get some gal to help with his algebra hobby. Because the idea of even having sex is repulsive, sex is more of a Friday, Saturday or Sunday thing. Wednesday would much rather make sure you don’t have any either. He’ll make sure to interrupt any story you’re telling to an attractive individual with some inane anecdote about how he once helped an Indian woman look for her lost dog in the rain. It’s an hour and a half long story and they never find that dog.
By then, it’s nearly Thursday’s shift and he’s already got his horse fed and watered and ready to assault the day. Wednesday bids all a goodnight and heads home, only stopping to fix the clock he knocked down earlier so we all go, “11:30? I thought it was 10:30? Damn you Wednesday!!!!”
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