{56} Fumbling through Friday

A week is a week is a week?

Then what is “Friday”? For me today it’s been a pain in the ass, mostly, although I am keenly aware of the fact that it marks the end of the “work week” and that makes everyone cheeery.

Because this is how humans have structured society, to turn not with the Sun and the Moon but by the clock and the calendar. I’m not of the mind that this is irredeemably bad, I think clocks and calendars are really helpful. I’m not sure that helpfulness extends to creating a fulfilling life, though. Mostly it’s good for not missing doctor appointments and birthdays.

To ask “what is “Friday”?” is to question our reality, in a way. It is culturally laden with meaning so that even people whose weekends are not Saturday/Sunday celebrate Friday. There are songs, even movies, about “Friday.” It’s one hell of a day.

I never thought “Friday” would mean much to me, when I was a kid. As a homeschooled only-child of reclusive and agnostic parents, I had very little to mark the passing of weeks outside of the TV schedule and father’s job. Even my brief stints in public schools didn’t make much impact. That was followed with an adulthood spent mostly in service-industry (or service-industry adjacent) jobs.

Marking time just seems so random to me. Wait, no — having a job seems random to me. I get it, I’m not stupid, I understand that my labor is exchanged for money that then is exchanged to pay my bills. But this whole marking of the week by the turn of my job, and having a job that is disconnected from my own internal purpose is such folly, I think! But then people ask me how I expect to cover rent…).

I often dream of a work-week marked by nothing, no weekdays or weekends, a return to the endless wonder of doing and making and dreaming of my youth. Instead I have lived through adulthood with the weekly rerun of Friday, always returning to put me in my place.

…what is “Friday” but a social construction representing the obligations of the proletariat by designating with false cheer the weekly pause in our Sisyphean labors?

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