Back in the day, when I was young and a little wild, I would drag myself into work on Monday morning. Copious amounts of coffee were consumed and conversations at the coffee urn were polite, subdued and quick. It was “too soon” to herald the old, marrieds with my youthful, single escapades.
What I didn’t know then, but certainly do now, is that these seemingly boring over-25’s were more exhausted than me. While I was out late all weekend, gallivanting about, they were making things happen, perpetuating the civilized world. Cooking for the week and cleaning and laundry and groceries and other errands and a hundred other things that the work week didn’t allow for. And if you went out to dinner or stopped to read a magazine, oh the guilt!
Back then, Friday at 5 p.m., I would zoom out of the parking lot in my little red hatchback, off to the local bar. Radio stations would play Loverboy’s Working For The Weekend, the perfect soundtrack to my work week exit. What I didn’t realize then was that many of my associates were headed to their other job, being responsible adults.
If I could go back, I would offer to deliver coffee to their desks. They needed the coffee more than me. So this morning, I raise my coffee mug in salute to them, to us. I am now an over-25. Times two.
