When I leave the office on Friday, I swear to god---in my mind, I am planning on curing cancer by the time Monday morning rolls around. Monday---when I go back to work and drink someone else's choice of coffee and scramble to take a bowel movement, in privacy, like a fugitive from justice.
But Friday through Saturday afternoon---when it's still fresh---there is this ten hour span of time that is pure bliss. I know that the next 48 hours spreads out in front of me like a road trip to heaven. The laundry I will do. The dusting. The organizing. The sorting of the paperwork and the collaging I've always wanted to do. The ridding of clutter. The resting and thinking. And finally: the gardening. Before the Sunday Weirds creep in and it all starts to feel vaguely unsettling.
Mostly, though, I'll be relaxed. So relaxed, that by the time the weekend is over I won't be able to speak. I won't even speak in meetings! I'll just drool and people will intuit what I am saying. Or I will be so loosey-goosey that when I do speak I'll put people in a trance and they'll sense what I am saying through their "Choose Your Attitude!" notepads.
Department of Go Away