And I’m Not Talking About the Restaurant.

For the longest time in my adult life, Fridays were not a special day. I was not one of those people that walked around saying, “Woo! T.G.I.F., man, amIrightorwhat?”. This was mostly because for most of my adult life I worked in a hospital, where weekends don’t mean jack shit. I worked at least every other weekend for a good five years. For a while there I worked every weekend. I went for weeks or some times months without seeing friends or family. Talk about your soul-sucking misery.

Since I’ve had the office job, however, my stance on Fridays has officially changed. I long for Fridays. I want to cuddle with Fridays. I want to put my mouth on Friday’s mouth. I want to go to a bar, eye Friday from across a crowded room, let him buy me one too many tequilas, and proceed to do dirty things to him in the men’s room.

Get it? I LIKE FRIDAYS.

It’s more apparent in the spring, what with all the sunshine and the warmer weather. The countdown starts at the office at 8 A.M. and with every passing hour, I get sillier and sillier in anticipation of that 5 P.M. quitting time. Cracking jokes with patients. Dancing a jig here and there. Singing Clarence Carter songs. Texting co-workers from my MRI room just to be a wiseass. Taking cellphone pictures of electrical outlets. Then 5 o’clock comes, I get in my Jeep, put the windows down, crank the iPod, and take my ass home.

Friday nights always mean chinese food, Friday Night Lights, and Dollhouse (they also used to mean Battlestar Galactica, but alas it is no more). Then the weekend comes with all my errands and cleaning and whatever else is on my plate. This weekend I’m heading up to the Poconos to celebrate Mama-San’s 55th birthday, and I’m hoping to get some prep work done in the kitchen – everything needs to be cleaned and scrubbed before we can start the reno. Mondays always come too fast, but that’s the thing about Fridays (and Clarence Carter sing-alongs), they’re only a few days away.