Weekly

The alarm clock on my

dresser is the death knell

of “weekend me” and the

resurrection of “weekday

me”.

Weekend me is fun and lazy

and carefree. Sleeps late in bed

or on the couch, no one really

cares. Spends too much

money on frivolity and laughs

like a maniac for hours.

Weekday me is sad, morose,

annoyed and grumpy. I have

to go to bed early and get up,

early. I have to try very hard

to find my smile.

I’ve never been a weekday

person. I’d prefer to stay a

weekend guy. That guy has

fun and adventures and could

actually spend time on doing

things that have meaning, in a

soul searching sort of way.

Weekday guy would prefer

to just not start sweating when

the bus is running a few minutes

behind schedule. Weekday guy hates

you. He hates everybody. He’s mean

and if he were an old man he’d swat at

you with his cane and curse at

you in some “Old Country” language.

Weekend me, he puts on a

Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses and

disappears for four and a half days while

Weekday me limps about town cursing

the very nature of the universe; frowning at

smiles and furrowing his brow with

disapproval.

A grump of the highest degree.

All hail the return of weekend me.