The Week, Every week

A second passes, just like a minute, which too races away along with the hour, day, week, month, year and eventually a lifetime. Then you’re like, “Where did that shit go?”

But let’s take a reasonable time frame to look at how things go down, say a week. It’s said that time doesn’t come back. Strangely, Mondays are a persistent. Then again, let’s start with the dreariest day of all… Sunday. 

That’s how it all starts, right? Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday… Eight days of the week. If you start counting days with Monday, boy, you’re some mature person. Also, your week is one day shorter, which however, in the larger scheme of things, shouldn’t make a difference.

Back to Sunday, the worst amongst its daily siblings. Why so? Because you wake up to the thoughts of the impending Monday, then you sulk all day, and the day just whooshes by like a fart. Yes, the beaches and promenades are also crowded with cheerful chirpy people, mostly couples eating away at each other’s heads. It’s either them or aunties who are fruitlessly trying to lose the last 10 pounds that they have been trying to for the past 4000 years. The uncles don’t run. They walk around, do their share of weekly ogling, go home and masturbate like hell! I almost forgot the pesky kids! Who gives these creatures the tricycles? Every time you’re out on a run, these tiddly things veer into your way, and then you need to be careful to not knock their bobby heads off. Yeah, Sundays are bad.

Onto motley Mondays. It’s like walking at 3kph and then suddenly being thrown onto a treadmill moving at 450kph. You can imagine the trip and the kind of rash that you’re left with when your face hits the treadmill’s conveyor belt. If you manage to get ready to take on the world by 12 in the afternoon, it’s cool. You can go to work in peace, reach without having to wring a litre of sweat from your shirt, and get fired from your job of course. Else, you can get up at 3 in the morning, get ready by 3:30am and sneak out before anyone steps out onto the road or the train. You’ll be office-and-dry, no one will notice, and you’ll curse yourself for not having slept those 3 extra hours. You can also wake up at 7, get stuck in the mad traffic, or jam-packed trains, and reach work at 9 in the night, and back home 3 days after. So yes, there’s no way around Monday unless you plan on turning into a house-wife.

Tuesdays are a bit easier. Most people who left work for Monday won’t return till Thursday, and those who returned did so because they lost their jobs. So the battle-field is less crowded. And that’s a lie. Apparently, a lot of people migrated to your city from Bihar the night before, which means only one thing. It’s about as crowded as Monday, and you get to hear a lot of amusing abuses. But yeah, you don’t have to be an un-payed employee at home.

Then we have Wednesdays, which feel vague , honestly. In fact, the world could probably have done without Wednesdays. Or maybe, it should be turned into a holiday or something. You see, it can’t compete with Tuesdays, let alone Mondays, for its sheer energy quotient. And since Thursday is a work-day, the lady won’t go out with you. Now that sucks.

It’s now time for the day before Friday! Yay! Yay!... err.. Yay! Thursday is kind of cool. You look forward to the next day, there’s usually not a lot of work. And precisely when you think that, some gloating idiot comes along with a chest-high stack of work that needs to be sorted. You slap your palm on your forehead and decide to jump off the top of your office building. Nah, you sit till late, finish off the entire pile of stuff that’s supposed to be the most urgent thing in life (sadly you know it isn’t), go home and doze off, hoping tomorrow will be better.

TGIF-- Thank Goodness (or God) It’s Friday-- Now that’s an expensive chain of restaurants set up to celebrate just one day of the entire week. The chap who came up with the idea, a guy named Alan Stillman, opened the first TGI Friday’s in New York in 1965. What’s strange is that he opened the restaurant on 15^th March, which turns out to be a Monday. Why Alan?
Coming to Fridays, they’re fun, the people are unusually cool. They don’t honk madly when you cut lanes while driving, and will even let you pass first across a barricade if you shift down a gear and bury the throttle into the car’s firewall. Even the trains have an easier-going crowd, unless of course you are getting on at Dadar. Well, in that place, you need to fight to get into the train even if it’s a Sunday afternoon, when everyone’s sleeping. I wonder who’s hustling at that time. On Friday, your lady looks particularly gorgeous, and the work is a little rushed because everyone’s itching to go to the late-night party (save for yours truly). You decide to go for a little sun-down drive in the opposite direction of your home. Roads are empty, but some bum’s driving at 7kph right on the dividing line, and so, you honk, flash the lights, hurl curses and try to give the guy ahead a piece of your mind. Sadly, he never gets it. Or maybe he does, because he moved to the left. But you don’t care if he got it or shat his pants, or snorted coke. You shift down to third, slam the throttle and shoot ahead with squealing wheels, leaving the world behind in the dust. Man, that Honda City is quick! You might miss out on the movie you planned on watching because of your nightly ventures though. But then, that’s what Saturdays are for.

So, Friday night fever is over, the tyres have cooled down, and a good chunk of the city is hung over. Perfect time for a workout! But you press the snooze button and doze off for another four hours, and bloody hell! It’s 11 in the morning!! That means half the day is gone, the newspaper is probably lying in tatters, and the coffee is over. So you trudge to the shop downstairs, see a bar of dark chocolate on the shelf, pay the money, eat the chocolate on the climb back home and…. Oh shit. You forgot the coffee. Screw it. Black tea today. After downing three movies, a family pack of ice cream, and four bananas, or seven, I don’t know, it’s evening. Meaning it’s time for some deadlifts! Basically you lift a barbell, loaded with all the weight plates in the gymnasium, straight off the floor. Something like this…..

Okay, she does it better.... Looks a lot sexier. 

You do it till your butt hurts, then go home, fall on your bed and into a deep slumber until ugly Sunday wakes you up again.