Why do we Work for the Weekends?

As we tripped on Monday and stumbled our way uphill over Tuesday, we reached the hump that is Wednesday and, dammit, we earned the right to sit back, bask in the sunshine, smile and say, “It’s all downhill from here.” With the weekend fast approaching and that dreaded Monday in our rearview mirror we can finally begin thinking of, first, a reason to drink a little bit of alcohol and then, second, what alcohol we’d like to imbibe.  A weekly ritual that never seems to grow old, but as we grow old the ritual often becomes surrounded with more busy work and trivial happenings as adulthood slowly drowns our livelihood in a pot of lukewarm coffee and ulcer causing stomach acid. Geez, now I really need a beer.

I swore I wouldn’t be working for the weekend, and yet here I am, fingers grudgingly typing emails and dialing telephones while the sun shines outside and people sip cold beer on patios, then laugh, and talk about how late they slept in this morning. Did we all think we could overcome the societal pressures and live our dream life or was that just me?  How come I’m not traipsing across a beach outside my ocean-side residence, retired before my 30s? When did RRSPs,  stock options and interest rates start mattering? Is acceptance of an ordinary life the next step in growing up? Is it time to throw in the towel? Something tells me it is.

Kidding. I will constantly try, sometimes harder than others, to live the life I’ve always wanted to live and if I get even close, great, if not at least I tried, and that’s gotta count for something, right? So here’s to keeping our dreams alive even if, in the end, they are just dreams. We need them. They keep us active, motivated and excited for what tomorrow has to offer, even if what you do tomorrow turns out to be watching reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. At least you were excited about it.

Oddly enough, just now I got email confirmation that I’ve been accepted to the school of my dreams. Life is looking up. Now this is a fist pumping moment.

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