Trading Punches with Tuesday

This week and I have been going back and forth on the score cards. It keeps jabbing me—and occasionally pummeling me, but then I fight back and it turns around and tries to be all nice.


This week is giving me Stockholm syndrome.


McD and I have long considered Tuesday the most evil day of the week. My official theory is that people expect Monday to be so bad that everybody goes out of their way to try to make it better. Then Tuesday comes along, and all the bad shit comes avalanching downhill, hitting the fan, etc. (In actuality, the Tuesday-is-evil theory emerged around the same time we started having weekly department meetings on Tuesdays.)


So, first thing Tuesday, I accidentally dumped my toast over so that it landed—face down, of course—in the driver’s seat I was about to occupy. I commuted with jelly.


McD, having suffered an unfortunate incident with strawberries at about that same time, declared it a day of falling food—an observation fortified when I opened the breakroom refrigerator and sent someone’s ample salad leftovers a-sprawling on the floor. Dammit.


But with each new insult, I felt kind of triumphant at not having a meltdown (as is my wont). My awesome new Target shoes wore bloody holes in my heels; I fixed them with scotch tape. I started to feel crappy, so at lunch I backed my way half-heartedly to the gym and wound up attacking the stairmill for 30 minutes at a higher-than-normal level.


Afterwards, I got Jimmy John’s—extra onions, extra lettuce. I felt resilient.


After work I went to the gas station and Publix and spent too much money on booze and cheese. I could feel the Tuesdayness closing in. So I again took charge: Sitting at a traffic light, uncomfortably close to a relatively young guy asking for change, I decided to go against my natural instinct to avoid eye contact. Instead, I reached into my groceries and offered him a beer. He was amused; I was amused; the cop that drove by at that exact moment was, happily, oblivious. Good times.


As I drove off, a guy pulled up alongside me: “You’d think he at least could’ve closed your gas cap,” he shouted. Dammit.


I had to wait until I got to St. Armands and, for the first time ever, was excited when a large group of right-of-way pedestrians crossed in front of me. I threw the car in park, tore off my seatbelt and lunged out of the car to close the cap—feeling cool and balletic until I banged my shoulder and my ass as I dove back in, and managed to get the car back into drive even though my foot had spazzed in a cramp. Dammit.


The day still felt like kind of a win, and I wanted to write about it when I got home. But the wireless was down. Argh. At which point I gave up on Tuesday.


The real problem is that recently it seems like Wednesdays are becoming more Tuesday-like—like, because our time-measurement systems aren’t quite accurate to the universe, the evilness has drifted over into a different day. Like we need to cut a day out of the week to get it right again. Like Leap Year except…the opposite.


I again went reluctantly to the gym and again banged out a pretty heroic workout on the treadmill and the stairmill. I wanted to wallow in a pasta-and-mushroom-cream-sauce special for lunch, but I got a protein smoothie instead. I fought for my day.


Wednesday afternoon annoyance, but I worked through it. Then I started getting worked up instead. I got caught in the negativity (much of it, admittedly is of my own making). I obsessed. I whined. I discovered a particularly infuriating administrative snafu, at which point McD and I went for our usual mile-long walk, venting all the way, a parade of incredulity and arm waving.


When we got back to the office, Bode unloaded on us his own recent frustrations. Wednesday was a Tuesday for everybody.


I let myself get emotionally spent toward the end of the day, but felt some relieving catharsis afterwards. I again felt resilient when I made grilled cheese and tomato soup, and sat down to eat it on the porch, listening to a lovely steady rain outside and reading The Shipping News.


Then the Bolts lost, the negativity closed in and I lost momentum again.


So here we are on Thursday. Thursdays don’t have any kind of reputation (…yet). I had a quiet morning of decent productivity. But then I popped the button on my trousers, which makes me think this whole week is determined to be difficult. So I took a three-mile walk (although I stepped in a puddle). I ate a salad. I fought for it.


Right now I’m looking forward to stone crabs with the ‘rents this evening, and I’m happy I finally got a blog written—although it’s too long, pretty rambly, and I’m also currently annoyed that my damn phone won’t relinquish my photos. I am trying.


In reality, it’s nice to find the good times, but it’s really damn frustrating to go back and forth like this—to have a brain (not the day, the week, or the universe, really) that won’t sit still in a comfortable spot. But I guess it’s better than spending the whole time on the mat.



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4 responses to “Trading Punches with Tuesday

  1. You know I don’t think I’ve ever wondered this before, but IS it a crime to offer a beer to a panhandler when you’re driving?

    • @Thing 1: I wondered the same thing! Thinking it over, it really shouldn’t be: if it’s not open they can’t get you for that, I bet he’s not underage, and they’d probably be using the money to get beer ANYway, you’re just cutting out a step!

      And honestly, if the cop had any sense of humor at all he’d be amused too.

      • Heh, I don’t think “cutting out a step” is a valid legal argument. 😛

        I had first reconsidered his face to make fairly certain he was old enough, but…I dunno. Panhandling is a crime, I guess? Exchanging alcohol with people on the street just seemed…illegal.

        It is in part because Sarasota has a reputation for sucking about that kind of stuff, so it’s hard to know what to expect.

  2. And when I wondered aloud to my coworkers about it, their kneejerk reaction was “OH MY GOD OF COURSE IT’S ILLEGAL.” But then no one could explain why. But I guess that kind of reaction has to come from somewhere. Got it. No beer for hobos.

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