Mr. Apron's Day Off

Every other weekend, I work from 3pm-11pm, Saturday and Sunday.

As a reward for this seemingly inhuman punishment, I receive one full weekday off every single week, whether I'm working that weekend or not. Usually, my day off is Tuesday. This week, it was Wednesday.

It was not a good day off.

In fact, none of the weekdays I've had off from work have been good days off.

Why?

Because they are loaded and scheduled within an inch of their life, crammed full of seemingly innocuous events, errands, things-to-do, responsibilities or tasks that, by themselves are but mere trifles. When all piled together inside the space of one eight or ten-hour-long day, they're nothing but a total clusterfuck. Down the hatch. Up the bum. In the mud.

My wife was concerned, before I took this job, that this would be what our "off" weekends would be like-- a haphazard and breathless attempt to jam in retreats, cultural events, shopping, and other fun things. So far, this hasn't happened yet. Then again, I've only worked one full weekend thusfar. My next one's coming up, right around the corner.

Anyway, before dwelling on the fact that a significant portion of this weekend will be spent at work amongst psychotics and sociopaths (some of whom, regrettably, will be naked), let's dwell on the unpleasantness of my days off, rather than being grateful for them. Because, really: who the hell would want to read that?

So, yes, I realize that I am potentially placing my delicate peen inside the gift horse's mouth with this post, but I accept the fact that my whining might anger those of you who are unemployed/employed with no free weekdays/think I'm an overprivileged assface with a nose the size of an Airbus A-380.

My days off, thusfar, have filled me with nothing but dread, anxiety, restlessness, frustration, a sense of utter non-accomplishment, self-loathing, irritability, and this prickly rash just beneath my--

Oh, sorry.

Anyway, apparently I am catching my wife's disease: Uneasewithstillnessosity. The symptoms are mainly a definitely irrational inability to just. fucking. be. So, if I'm not running around on my day off ticking little boxes on a to-do list that I certainly haven't had the forethought to make in the first place, then I beat myself about the head, chest, breast, neck and head with a child's size pontoon boat and assrape myself with a frozen garden hose because I am, clearly, a bad, bad boy.

I have completely squandered my day off, yet again, I have absolutely nothing to show for it, oh, and I am a crybaby little twatalot.

Did I mention that, when people drive behind me with their high-beams on, it makes me want to club baby seals? However, since they aren't too prevalent in this neighborhood, I'd settle for alley kittens. Or just babies.

Sorry, I know that particular gripe wasn't really connected to my days off, but it sort of just illustrates where I am, emotionally.

I apologize for the tone of this post (and I don't do that often). But I just feel everything.... slipping a bit. My interactions with friends are stilted and terse, my obligations to the boards I am on are being ignored or put off, chores around the house get pushed aside, and I feel like I'm not even treading water these days, as if everything is getting away from me, just enough for me to recognize it but not be able to bring myself to do anything about it. And that makes me feel like a guilty wreck, which I'm used to feeling, but not quite on this level.

Of course, this blog probably isn't helping that predicament. Because here I am, in the twenty minutes before I have to fly off to rehearsal for three-and-a-half hours, blogging on my day off, pretending I'm writing on Thursday at 7:18am, when it's really 5:19pm on Wednesday.

Ah, life.