The wall next to my desk is a window, about twelve feet high and fifteen feet wide. It overlooks the UNC campus from high up in this building, which is perched high up on a hill. The sky is a bright blue this morning, the leafless trees are swaying, and the only sounds I’m hearing at the moment are the vents rattling as they pump out the toasty warm air, the click click of my keyboard, the rustle of a newspaper from a coworkers desk. Any second the phone could ring, the elevator bell might signal the arrival of a student or a coworker or a random guy in a suit yapping into his Bluetooth headset, or an email could float into my inbox compelling me to complete some random office-guy task. It’s Friday. Again. Seems like it was just Friday. A few rebels are wearing jeans, rebels because we don’t do that casual Friday thing here at the Business school. It’s just not a very business-y thing to do. But anyway, it’s Friday, so who cares what pants you have on. Friday means I’ll not be very productive today. I’ll goof around here on my blog, looking focused and busy of course, until about ten thirty or so. That’s when I go next door to pick up the mail and, more importantly, a cup of Starbucks coffee. After I sort the mail I’ll take a little coffee break. I brought in a bagel and some cream cheese for my mid-morning snack. At some point I’ll get some work done, I guess. But who cares. It’s Friday. Again. Time really does seem to be speeding up as I get older. It’s freaking me out a little, really. This life, this nine to five, Monday through Friday grind, this live for the weekend sort of life, is like a train rushing down a mountain, picking up speed by the second, heading who the hell knows where at an increasingly alarming rate of speed as the hair grays, the lines around the eyes groove in deeper and deeper, and the sense of “things’ll change for the better as soon as this or that happens and then I’ll be off this train and then maybe things will slow down a little and I’ll finally get a chance to really catch my breath and get some momentum going in this other direction”–that sense swells in the belly, increasing the pressure ever closer to the hypothetical popping point. Or maybe there won’t be a big pop, but the pressure will just hiss away while I sleep and work, and keep sleeping and keep working. Maybe there won’t be a big glorious kaboom after all, but just a series of stale farts squeezed out a little squeak at a time. But who cares. It’s Friday. Again. Today I can meet Jeff at the Open Eye Café after work and shoot the shit for a little while. I have time for that today. And I can grab a burrito at Carrburritos, and read through the Independent Weekly, and go home and play my guitar and maybe watch some TV and have a beer. And maybe my wife is coming to visit me this weekend, and not because I’m actually writing this from a psychiatric hospital but because she’s been in Kentucky finishing her doctorate degree. If she does visit tomorrow, then we can hang out, because tomorrow’s Saturday, and I’ll have time to hang out. Then on Sunday I’m going to finally get that professional massage I’ve been wanting to get for the last eight years. And I can play some more guitar, or go for jog, or watch a movie with my wife (if she’s here). In any event, by the time dinner time rolls around on Sunday I’ll back on the train, thinking about what to make for Monday’s lunch, wondering if I have enough clean socks and underwear to get through the week, through to another Friday. Another Friday… Oh shit, it’s ten thirty. Coffee and bagel time. I’m not sure if I have enough cream cheese for both halves of the bagel, but who cares…
6 Replies to “Another Friday”
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Starbucks? SELLOUT!!
I read your blog. You are some not-entirely-random connection to my past.
I understand your time-speeding-up sensation. I think I noticed it in my mid-twenties. I asked someone about it, and they postulated “when you are young, a year is a big % of your life; as you get older, it’s not.” Perhaps. It certainly is happening to me too. Take some comfort in the fact that it happens to most people, NO MATTER WHAT THEY ARE DOING —- and I bet people who are so consumed with a life filled with meaningful “Mission” experience it even more.
Nobody really knows what they are supposed to be doing, and those who say “I finally know what I was put on this earth for.”…. I think they are trying to fool at least themselves a bit. I think we all ask “what if” a bit. Even guys like Gene Simmons must, and mother teresa too.
Sounds like you got a NICE window. That’s a LUXury many people would envy.
Happy Friday, Bob.
For some reason, reading this made me more aware of the space between me and the stuff in the office. The space is pregnant with the mystery of what sits just below the structure of apparent reality.
Sean
Yeah, it’s a pretty nice window. The window, along with the relatively generous hourly wage, is the big reason I’ve stuck with this particular temp job. And yeah, the percentage of life theory does make some sense. The perception of time can be highly variable though, even for old guys like us. I’ve been meditating a lot lately, and while I’m sitting there focusing on my breath, even ten minutes can seem like an hour, especially when I’m restless and don’t really feel like doing it. And of course various drugs (for those hippies and freaks who indulge in such things) can affect one’s perception of time in some pretty interesting ways (so I’ve been told, by this hippy freak I knew a long time ago).
Hey Son, now you know how Dad and I feel about time zooming by. Just remember to stop and smell the roses. I guess that Jimmy taught us that. It does seem to go by faster and faster as we age. And there’s no stopping time.
I hope that Mary Alice does come home for the weekend.
I’m watching the boys for the weekend, while Rich and Rhonda go to NYC. I’ll be at their house and Dad will be back and forth.
Sean: “The space is pregnant with the mystery of what sits just below the structure of apparent reality.” Cool! Somewhere in that mystery is a place beyond time. I hope. Have a great weekend, man.
Mom: Yeah, those grand-kids of yours will keep you on your toes, that’s for sure! I’ll call you Sunday evening and you can tell me all about it.
That freak could have been me, or Liam, in HS.
http://www.cannabisculture.com/articles/3075.html
Pot has the biggest effect. That is one of the reasons it is classified as a haluc. Maybe a slow drip of the stuff would cure the effect. I never found the psych benefits they list (other than making things “cooler, funnier, yummier”, but have known people who have. One friend found he focused better, and went from a bright C- student to off-the-charts.