TGIF started out innocently enough.
It was a nice little morale booster inside offices and school halls, something to say in awkward elevator rides or when a colleague accidentally went in for a high five.
Thank god it’s Friday! Amen to the end of your clocked-in nine-to-five (plus six, seven, eight, nine). Hallelujah to two days of no deadlines, no class. To freedom!
Then “TGIF” turned into a conspiratorial lie.*
*Not for everyone. That’s the disclaimer that needs to be understand before moving forward. There remains a large population of those who, regardless of sleep stats, will catch a 5 PM Friday second wind; those who live for the post-6 PM rage fest, who either drop their crap off at their apartment then turn it right back around, or who don’t bother checking into the homestead at all; they book it straight to the bar.
Question: “But Carole, what do you do with your crap?”
Response: “If someone wants my briefcase, they can have it.”
However. We’re not here to discuss those weekend warriors. Those whose eyes are focused on the happy hour prize. No, no. We’re here to form an alliance against the night that — somewhere in our late twenties — went from relaxing safe-haven to stressful hell.
The work week, as you know, is go, go, go. There’s also a high likelihood that your day doesn’t end when you close your laptop: you’re at work dinners, client drinks, networking events, fundraisers. That means at least four full days spent nursing mild school night hangovers.
And believe me, I know. Re: that headache? You “just” had a glass of wine. My former youth betrayed me, too.
Come Friday, you’re barely hanging in there. You’re pushing toward the end like a weed-whacker stuck in molasses, watching your inbox grow as your outbox refuses to shrink, all while the text messages on your phone start popping up.
“What’s the plan?”
“Where’s the party?”
“What time are we starting”
But you’re exhausted. The thought of going home after work to change, to then leave your apartment again (again!) sounds like cruel and unusual masochism of the first degree. All you want to do is sit on your couch. Catch up on TV. Catch up on Instagram. Take a shower. Take a nap. Review the blank spot on your wall. Go to bed at 10 so that you can wake up and have a proper, productive, worth-it weekend.
“You can sleep when you’re dead,” your more fun friends goad you.
“But I’ll die if I go out,” you reason. “Let me sleep now.”
So who’s with me? Comment your petition below to end the Friday Night Madness. I’ll be in bed with a book and my Friday night-light.
Feature image by Krista Anna Lewis