February 16th, 2010
It seems as if we’ve had a rather eventful past few days with Sunday being Valentine’s Day and yesterday giving us President’s Day. Last night I was standing outside of my neighborhood French bistro in the snow. In the spirit of promising to be honest with my readers, this phrase actually uttered from my mouth: “Presidents Day really is a time when dreams come true!” My friend, who doesn’t miss a beat, followed up with, “This is the best President’s Day ever!”
The glory was short-lived as we have landed on Tuesday, the day of the week with little to no charisma. In the Greek world, Tuesday (the day of the week of the “Fall of Constantinople”) is considered an unlucky day. It is also a harsh reminder that it is not the weekend. Or nowhere near it. It comes to no surprise that this day of the week gave us Black Tuesday’s stock market crash which is considered the beginning of the Great Depression. Tuesday, you are part of my great depression. I would not put out for you.
Each day of the week makes me feel something palpable and I’m trying to process through these feelings.
In order to determine the day of the week that could be “the one” for me, I conducted a rose ceremony. Clearly Tuesday was the first to be eliminated… but the rest of the weekdays have their merits and are still in the running. Here’s why they’re contenders:
If the work week were a hill, then you would be the crest. You’re often referred to as "hump day" because of your position as the middle day of the work week. Although I enjoy your promiscuity, my mother, Ash Wednesday, would never approve of your notorious hump whore status. I’ve brought home Wednesdays before and she branded their foreheads with ash. But for now, dear Wednesday, I want to continue to hump. Hump hard. Wednesday, will you accept this Rose?
My heart melts as we watch Must See TV while eating moo goo gai pan. Out of the box. You’ve made me realize that the promise of a weekend is not just a fantasy. It’s a reality. I also can’t deny that I so enjoy hitting Thursday night happy hours with you. The more I drink…the more attractive you get. And for that, I offer you a rose.
You are my Sabbath, a precious gift from God, a day of great joy that I eagerly await for throughout the week, a time when we can set aside all of our weekday concerns and devote ourselves to higher pursuits. I love that we can just stay home, drink six bottles of Manishevitz and watch “Friday Night Lights.” Who wants to go out on Fridays anyways? Amateur night. You’re a pro and I am honored to offer you this rose.
When I think of you …I think of glorious free time. And you make me feel so very. ..so very... free. I love that we talk about being productive with laundry, shopping and cleaning…and ultimately do none of it. Being unproductive with you reminds me that I am nowhere near being perfect and have a lot of free time to think about that. That’s a gift. A rose. For you.
I cherish our mornings when we lay in bed, cuddle and do the “New York Times” crossword puzzle. Jesus loves Sunday’s as well. Although I don’t think he is the son of God, JC is hot. Like you. Please do me the honor of having this rose.
I adore that you’re the beginning of the week and nothing has gone wrong. Yet. We’re just sharing our best selves and we haven’t presented our dark sides. Spending time with you is a beautiful illusion that everything is perfect. You make delusion sexy and I want you… to have this rose.
Sadly, I was unable to have further rose ceremonies because a jealous and enraged Tuesday came in with an AK-47 and violently shot all the other weekdays. Dead.