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…
In case you missed it, Dr. Tracy Gaudet was the guest on yesterday’s installment of 