Instant gratification

Why are Fridays so terribly hard?

My daily routine for the last two weeks forced me to stay in my apartment until after lunch so that I would not be tempted to buy lunch elsewhere. Since I also stay in bed until my roommate has safely disposed of herself, this makes for a later start than might be advisable. I figure, however, that since I am in no way a morning person I am actually preparing myself to be fully useful for the second half of the day, instead of lying to myself and saying I've done eight hours of work by 5 or 6pm. Sensible, no?

The main thing, really, is that I am oh-so-proud of myself for spending nary a dollar on lunch food for the past two weeks, which balances out the food bought for my Thanksgiving meal. Such extravagance demands some punishment in these paycheckless hours.

And so, for two weeks, I have woken up at 8am, listened to Heather prepare to leave the apartment FOR TWO FRICKIN' HOURS, rolled out of bed to shower, turned on Ellen, made breakfast, poked at my guitar and strategized things. Then at about 1pm I convince myself that I'm hungry and warm up my leftover potatoes or squash soup. Don't tell me they're probably too old to be good. I'd rather not think about microbes.

Then I put on my socks and sneakers. That takes a long time and I don't know why. It's up there with the three hardest parts of the day.

And today, all of the day's efforts were rewarded as soon as I let the arched door of the Castle Warwick close behind me.

First, I noted the clear and lovely sunshine beating its way through the nekkid trees. Lovely blue sky, as well. People looking busy up and down Beacon St. as crews washed windows, hung holiday lights on aforementioned nekkid trees, unloaded fruit for the Russian grocer, and a strange young man in a long wool coat and nice pants walked toward me with arms outstretched, a beaming smile on his face.

"JoBiv!" said he.

"Kevin Drumm!" sez I.

Imagine the slo-mo scene of lovers leaping through a field of wild flowers, hair a-flowing, violins soaring...

... except with me and Kevin Drumm, a friend from college whose hometown neighbors mine, and we're not running, and we just hug and smile at each other pleasantly and try to catch up in three minutes, knowing we won't make a date to hang out or see each other until the next chance crossing.

Drumm updated me with good news - a promotion, general busy grown-upness, demanding but satisfying job... It was a "casual Friday" and he wore Dry Clean Only slacks and a shirt that requires ironing, but, he urged me to notice, no tie or suit jacket. Oh... I see.

"How are you, JoBiv? What's new?"

This is where I'd like to make up a story.

"I'm doing ab-fab, dahling. I've just signed a recording contract with Verve and my first novel is off to the printers as we speak. I was just strolling out to meet friends for lunch on Newbury... I do adore people-watching and wearing pointy-bitch-shoes, don't you know..."

Ahem. OR:

"Oh I'm good! I've been doing this freelance writing gig and I'm kinda laid off from it..."

"You should get on unemployment... Man, during the holidays and everything..."

"Um... except it's by contract..."

"OHhh... Oh. Well, you'll find something."

"Yeah, and the great thing about freelancing is that it takes forever for the paychecks to come, so I'll actually continue to get paid for a few months! AND," trump card, wait for it, "I get to wear jeans every day, you know."

Kevin Drumm chuckles in the right places, we laugh at how grown-up he seems, how little pot he's smoking these days and how seldom he drinks. He wishes me luck, we hug again, wish each other a happy holiday...

There are worse things than getting a big friendly hug the instant you walk outside.