The weekends are such; they breeze by quickly.
What was once an alluring and promising Saturday morning introduces an unfolded day that rushed by without regard. Sunday morning descends with a surprising crash, slightly jolly in spirit but suffused with bittersweet ambivalence for the countdown is now a forward march to Monday which means the weekend is over and the shit begins anew. Two days flew by and we live our stupid pathetic lives circled around these two days simply because we “hate” work so much. Even if we don’t hate work (as in my case), there is an implicit agony built into the repetitive act of dragging yourself out of bed and being at the beck and call of someone’s else schedule and routine. For 5 days, we lose autonomy, and we are grade school children again, waiting for the bell, for the whistle. Little mindless mutts, waiting for our next temporal treat, Friday.
Like children. We pretend we are overt “adults” and we contrast ourselves with the folly of children, yet, when studied clearly, we are children. Even in that allegedly sedate and mature environment like work, we are horribly children. We inhabit larger, aging bodies, but our spirit, ours souls, are ultimately childish. Impulsive, lazy, hedonistic, unprincipled…children, we are, with credit cards and bills.
Some days are worse than others. This past Friday was one of those “worse” days.
Friday served two ingredients which made for an extremely childish work vibe: 1) It was Friday, and 2) It was St. Patrick’s Day.
Mid-afternoon festivities were in store, including all the normal culinary accoutrements accompanying the date, and the build-up was propelled by daily email reminders that Friday (March 17!) we should stop by the lounge and take part in XXXXXX St. Patrick’s Day celebration and enjoy food and drink, on the company. It’s safe to say that whenever the company offers free food and drinks, the turnout will be suffocatingly immense.
Friday morning arrived and as expected, a fair assortment of shades of green were on display. Most irritating, that share of the population compelled to partake in such crass stupidity that it overrides any sense of fashion or taste, evidenced by the most horrible costumes and outdated clothes they fish from their closet. The morning atmosphere was redolent of goofiness and levity, the annoying harbingers of a very unproductive day. I wore dark blue skinny jeans and a dark gray t-shirt. No green for me. I have green choices in my normal work clothes rotation, but I consciously chose not to wear green as a rebuff to the idiocy which abounded (in fact, green is my favorite color). Such frivolity wears thin on me.
I am not a frivolous person. I despise levity. It makes me uncomfortable.
Now this is not a boast, nor am I defending it as a personal measure of strength.
In fact, there is nothing I would love more than to be able to constitutionally enjoy the glib aspects of modern life with everyone else. The normals. I am decidedly abnormal. I was born this way. I’ve always been a serious person. Too serious. (To those inclined, a search of this blog will reveal all the posts I’ve written on this subject).
Even my S/O, perhaps when disenchanted with me, will accuse, “You’re no fun.” Difficult to retort against that. For she’s right. I’m not. I am not a gregarious person and I don’t play trivial games nor do I relish singing and laughing for the sake of singing and laughing. There are guys who are into that stuff. They are showmen, they are jokesters, they prank and laugh and say all the right funny things; not me. I am awkward and my jokes don’t fit in the trough of collective stupidity that makes people laugh. My sense of humor is self-destructively discerning. My sense of amusement is likewise self-destructively partitioned.
Levity is my poison. St. Patrick’s Day on a Friday was assuredly my poison.
I sat in my office and worked and never got up for food or drink. I am not into food or drink as a social glue. I am not gluttonous, I eat what I bring to work and that’s that. I don’t need more than that. I am a cold, analytical and sparse. I think I get these traits from my maternal genetics. I see no point to life in the absence of bleakness and seriousness.
Fun is overrated. It is spiritual death, gluttony of the empty soul.