A weekday off from work has a lot to be said for it, we all crave it, personally I'd kill for it, but when I finally have one, an interesting psychological occurrance takes place.
Since I was a kid (I'm obviously kidding, I was born like Athene, fully grown and ready to talk back to my parents), it's been imbedded in my upbringing that running loose in the daylight hours on weekdays is bad. Why, I never really understood, it may have something to do with too much enjoyment, empty shops with nobody in your way, no queues, no pervs trying to feel you up on a crowded bus, and thus, something oh so sweet is also oh so bad and forbidden.
So I went to school, I went to more school, and I started working, all in the daytime. In my job I have to work every other weekend, which means that I, every other week have a weekday off to compensate (like a boring tuesday night can really compensate for a moist, regrettable saturday night of not knowing where the hell you are). Thus leaving me free to roam around as I please for a whole day.
At first I was excited, woohoo, I'll go walking, go scare some kids or grannies at the park, but you quickly realise that you wake up nearly as late as they go to bed, and when you do get up, you're too afraid to go outside. What if you see someone you know on just a greeting basis, and they think you are unemployed or homeless, or slightly prostitutional, because let's face it, who else roams the streets on weekdays except freaks and mothers with their babies? And you certainly aren't pushing any carriage around, and whilst we're being honest, those love handles come from your chocolate babies. You can't go up to the person and say "hey, I've got a day off from work" because you don't know them that well, and if you did anyway, they'd think you were one of those freaks that talk to strangers on the bus.
Even your neighbours become your own worst enemies. What if they happen to peak out the window just as you're leaving or entering the house at an unreasonable, homeless person time? Naturally you've got the perfect excuse for why your neighbours are also at home at the time, they are either retired (at the age of 35?!), unfit for work (unless it's off the record) or a mom to be (that's surely just a love for chocolate cake that's starting to peak out at the belt line). All this makes you a prisoner in your own home, and let's face it, your place isn't exactly fun central.
You lie in, the extreme version, trot around in ugly clothes your partner would burn in a black ritual if he or she ever saw, over-eat, watch tv til your brain hurts from too much womanhood on display, and sometimes you might even try to take up a lost hobby that once was lost for a reason. You can't knit for fuck, and your paintings are that of a five year old crackhead...no, I take that back, THAT I would pay to see!
Shame creeps in just around dinnertime, boredness, panic at how little of your day off is left, the feeling of skiving, lying to your mum about having tummy aches to stay in because it's snow outside and you know your face will be buried in two feet of white pain before the first bell rings. You grow more and more sure that this day in particular must have been the best day ever at work, something extraordinary happened, everybody got a bonus or free chocolates, a palace in France, a night with Christian Bale (after anger management).
But they never did, and you long for your day off once again. For the shame, for the angst, for the isolation from the pain of public transport.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Feminism versus My Boyfriend
I only just got my first boyfriend. Aaaaw, teenage sweetheart love, you may think to yourself, but no, I'm 26, which I presume makes me insanely picky, or maybe just a freak. What can I say? I'm a big softy romantic freak in that case.
Suddenly having a boyfriend actually introduces changes into your life, and I am not talking about the obvious ones, like waking up to a smelly man every morning and having no say in who gets the biggest cupcake, but rather the traditional clichés you thought was only a remnant of male chauvinism. I have this old antique cabinet I got from my grandmother when she got so old she basically returned to a teenager status and was no longer allowed to live on her own, and for the last five years one of the lower cabinet doors has been completely fucked up, it probably lost a screw back in 1955 and has been hanging all crooked, like a depressed, self-cutting emo, every time it's been opened. Now, one of the first things my boyfriend did after noticing this, was smelling down the nearest hammer in my place, I swear to gods I didn't even know I had one, and going at it, like his life depended on it. Now the door actually shuts completely, no longer spilling out my scary personal stuff to strangers visiting, because let's face it, good things gets put on display, bad stuff is hid in cabinets and drawers.
I've also had this kitchen light that hasn't been working since I moved in here, basically because I stuffed a light tube up there once and no lights came on, so therefore it was deemed broken. I came to terms with being only a meere mortal and lived like a goth for a while, but along comes mr. manly man and pops the tube in place, voila, there is light. I vaguely remember throwing myself around his neck for a second before my strict equality of the sexes-upbringing whipped me back into a couldn't care less-throwing of one shoulder and a thank you.
I must admit I sort of worship my boyfriend in an unhealthy Waco-way after all this magic. I suddenly grasp the fantasy many women have about handymen and men in general wearing tool belts, it's like a sick prehistorical instict telling us "this is the way to things around the house actually working!". Sure, I could have managed to fix it myself, but to me it seems like such a pain in the arse to have to do, something so invisible that I can't brag about it to others. I can spend hours finding the right curtain for a room, but putting in a nail where it's needed is just excessive work. I'll be the first to say it; WOMEN!
Feminists never tell you this, but when you're sick or just really tired, the man will actually hoover the carpet for you, and go to the shop to get your candy for you...it's like some sweet, grown up surprise, like sex was when you were a teenager. We've been had!
Suddenly having a boyfriend actually introduces changes into your life, and I am not talking about the obvious ones, like waking up to a smelly man every morning and having no say in who gets the biggest cupcake, but rather the traditional clichés you thought was only a remnant of male chauvinism. I have this old antique cabinet I got from my grandmother when she got so old she basically returned to a teenager status and was no longer allowed to live on her own, and for the last five years one of the lower cabinet doors has been completely fucked up, it probably lost a screw back in 1955 and has been hanging all crooked, like a depressed, self-cutting emo, every time it's been opened. Now, one of the first things my boyfriend did after noticing this, was smelling down the nearest hammer in my place, I swear to gods I didn't even know I had one, and going at it, like his life depended on it. Now the door actually shuts completely, no longer spilling out my scary personal stuff to strangers visiting, because let's face it, good things gets put on display, bad stuff is hid in cabinets and drawers.
I've also had this kitchen light that hasn't been working since I moved in here, basically because I stuffed a light tube up there once and no lights came on, so therefore it was deemed broken. I came to terms with being only a meere mortal and lived like a goth for a while, but along comes mr. manly man and pops the tube in place, voila, there is light. I vaguely remember throwing myself around his neck for a second before my strict equality of the sexes-upbringing whipped me back into a couldn't care less-throwing of one shoulder and a thank you.
I must admit I sort of worship my boyfriend in an unhealthy Waco-way after all this magic. I suddenly grasp the fantasy many women have about handymen and men in general wearing tool belts, it's like a sick prehistorical instict telling us "this is the way to things around the house actually working!". Sure, I could have managed to fix it myself, but to me it seems like such a pain in the arse to have to do, something so invisible that I can't brag about it to others. I can spend hours finding the right curtain for a room, but putting in a nail where it's needed is just excessive work. I'll be the first to say it; WOMEN!
Feminists never tell you this, but when you're sick or just really tired, the man will actually hoover the carpet for you, and go to the shop to get your candy for you...it's like some sweet, grown up surprise, like sex was when you were a teenager. We've been had!
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