Monday, June 07, 2004
Monday, Monday
I can’t really claim to have the most glamorous or exciting lifestyle. A lot of times my weekends are spent sleeping, lying on the couch watching The Game on TNT for like the thousandth time, or meticulously vacuuming the potato chip crumbs out of my living room rugs. I have been known to play board games with my friends (What can I say? I happen to have a savant-like gift for Taboo.) and I recently watched a tape I didn’t know I’d made of the 2000 Olympics nearly all the way through (Go men’s synchronized diving team!). Somehow, though, despite my weekend inaction I generally manage to arrive sufficiently exhausted at my office each Monday to make my employer think I spent the weekend at Studio 54 snorting coke off Liza Minelli’s ass. I’m not really sure what my problem is.
In general, that is. This particular weekend my fatigue probably has something to do with the 12-hour barbeque extravaganza my roommate decided we should hold. Drinking and sitting in the heat for hours are always a winning combination, and adding brisket and week-old macaroni salad into the mix was, quite frankly, a brilliant innovation. By midnight I was drinking bad white zinfandel out of a plastic cup and desperately searching for the E.L. Fudges. Basically, we were only a six-pack of Zima and a couple of Hilton sisters away from the classiest evening of the summer.
So another work week starts with a state of exhaustion generally reserved for returns clerks at IKEA and your mom after Fleet Week. It’s just as well, really. Why let work make you feel like hell when you’re clearly capable of doing that yourself?
I can’t really claim to have the most glamorous or exciting lifestyle. A lot of times my weekends are spent sleeping, lying on the couch watching The Game on TNT for like the thousandth time, or meticulously vacuuming the potato chip crumbs out of my living room rugs. I have been known to play board games with my friends (What can I say? I happen to have a savant-like gift for Taboo.) and I recently watched a tape I didn’t know I’d made of the 2000 Olympics nearly all the way through (Go men’s synchronized diving team!). Somehow, though, despite my weekend inaction I generally manage to arrive sufficiently exhausted at my office each Monday to make my employer think I spent the weekend at Studio 54 snorting coke off Liza Minelli’s ass. I’m not really sure what my problem is.
In general, that is. This particular weekend my fatigue probably has something to do with the 12-hour barbeque extravaganza my roommate decided we should hold. Drinking and sitting in the heat for hours are always a winning combination, and adding brisket and week-old macaroni salad into the mix was, quite frankly, a brilliant innovation. By midnight I was drinking bad white zinfandel out of a plastic cup and desperately searching for the E.L. Fudges. Basically, we were only a six-pack of Zima and a couple of Hilton sisters away from the classiest evening of the summer.
So another work week starts with a state of exhaustion generally reserved for returns clerks at IKEA and your mom after Fleet Week. It’s just as well, really. Why let work make you feel like hell when you’re clearly capable of doing that yourself?
