When I woke up this morning, the single chime of the Zen alarm my husband bought on a whim didn’t sound quite as annoying. As I stretched my poor, newly 35-year-old body, it didn’t seem quite as stiff. And as I went to make Gabrielle and William breakfast, things pulled together smoothly, rather than the boiled-over cream of wheat and burned toast from a few days before.
As I washed the dishes and reviewed what I had to get accomplished during the day, it was then I realized why the morning was so sweet. See, it’s Friday, dear readers, that glorious, best day of the week when birds sing a little louder and don’t poop on your car quite as much.
Since I was a little girl, Friday has been a minor religion in the Kaprowy home. It was my mom who I remember being an especially devout parishioner, announcing as we’d clomp down the stairs that the end of the week was finally here. Standing in her tangerine-orange, zip-up housecoat, she’d turn to us while creating the most perfect lumps in our cream of wheat and smile warmly. She looked relaxed and, though there were lines on her face from her pillowcase, rested.
“Are you excited for the weekend?” she’d say. “I am.”
Matthew and I would stand at the end of the driveway to wait for the bus, the blistering cold whipping down Seekings Street. But somehow our snowsuits kept us warm. And somehow the day would pass more quickly than the other days.
When we’d get home, we knew it was pizza night and that we didn’t have to go to bed early. Instead, we’d get to eat popcorn, drink a can of Coca Cola and watch “Dallas” and “Falcon Crest.”
Not to get off topic, but watching “Dallas” was another minor religion in our home and to this day I can always remember the tune of the opening credits on demand. All four of us, even 4-year-old Matthew, were deeply invested in the goings-on of J.R., Sue Ellen, Bobby and Pamela. I remember wishing very hard at the age of 8 that I would grow up to look like Pamela, though I did want to wear that dark stripe of blush like Sue Ellen.
And I remember very clearly when Bobby turned around in the shower, alive and well, after a season of mourning his death.
I’d usually be nodding off during “Falcon Crest,” whose characters just weren’t as compelling as the ones at Southfork. I mean, except for that mean, old Angela Channing and, of course, Lorenzo Lamas’ character, whatever his name was.
At any rate, I’d fall asleep on the couch and my dad would carry me to bed. Even though the ride upstairs would wake me up, I’d still pretend to be asleep, making my body ridiculously limp so he wouldn’t make me brush my teeth. And then suddenly it would be Saturday, a whole other kind of gift.
Since I’ve gotten older, I’ve become as devout a Friday follower as my mom. I especially love when it’s 2 p.m. and you’re listening to the radio and the D.J. announces, “Listeners, you’re just hours away from the weekend.” It always feels so celebratory, like we’re all going to the same party or the beach.
Of course, the beauty of Friday is offset by the dreariness of Monday, but even that day is OK because it at least gives us something to compare Friday to. I have a theory that the sweet things in life are all the sweeter because they’re rare. For example: Would a vacation be as special if it were all the time? Would “Dallas” have been as good if it were every night?
The answer is no and neither would Friday be. There is, after all, something golden about having to wait for it.
So, since it’s finally here, I’m going to enjoy all the million ways Friday makes life better. I’m going to go out for lunch and delight in the fact that the restaurant is packed because people feel there’s time on Friday to eat out. I’m going to pay my car taxes and smile at the fact that everyone is allowed to dress casually once a week. I’m going stock up at the grocery store and consider grilling burgers and making potato salad because that’s fun, easy weekend food. And I’m going to anticipate 5 o’clock when everyone is released and the games can begin. Have a great weekend, everyone. TGIF.