Black Friday
Generally Friday’s are a reason to celebrate: it’s almost weekend so you don’t go to work the following days, you dream about partying all night, getting down with a wine or two, sleep all Saturday morning, be lazy and do nothing, switch off your phone, zap the TV channels all day long, eat chips from an old bag, drag your feet to the bathroom, skip shower, hit the bed in the middle of the afternoon, sleep your day to the evening when you start all over again, have fun, possibly have some torrid sex, drink again, sex again, sleep, sex, sleep, breakfast and sleep and sex?
Basically on Friday you start longing for the NO-day Saturday and Sunday.
(I remember one of my friends used to be a master of these NO days. Except that she would iterate them in the middle of the week which was kind of uncomfortable in a work environment. Nevertheless I envied her from the bottom of my heart for that righteous degree of self-selfishness).
The trick is that before you throw yourself in a session of unrealistic daydreaming you still have to make it on Friday itself at least to lunch time. You have to accommodate last minute emergencies with torn nerves and bad hair.
There’s nothing more disturbing for a woman than to reach the end of the week with a horrible hair: too flat, too greasy, too shiny, too stiff, too curly, too rebellious, too… in all senses. It’s already a tragedy that you have to survive the Friday, but if your hair style is far from being decent – you do have mirrors around, right? – then you’re heading disaster.
And I can bet you my morning coffee that your audience would not even realize what hit it. You’re grumpy, you look like an enraged beast, your answers are short, unfriendly, uninviting. Your smile is too large, your teeth too many. You end each sentence with a screeching sound of mashed dental edges. you drop things loudly on your desk, you pretend not to hear the phone ringing, You are being watched and you’re ready to virtually kill everybody and everyone in a range of three tables and a hallway. You pace up and down as the lions do in their cage. You’re trapped… And finally you bang the printer. Hard! You have just seen your reflection on its top cover.
The noise startles the silent statues around. You’re watched from over accusing eye glasses. You curse to your chest and go out of the room to grab a coffee.
On the way your eyes catch glimpse of the blonde babe. She’s a mess. You’re the expert, you know it!
“Black Friday, huh?” you throw it devilishly to her.
She lifts her head up and smiles to you: “Yes, bad hair day!”
And we both know that the Friday isn’t that black after all, and that the bad hair is actually a new trend, as long as we are not the odd ones out!
You return to the office and you start your reverie about your -drink-sleep-sex-sleep-eat-sex-sleep-sex-eat weekend.
Dreaming cannot hurt… or can it?