The edge of the weekend creeps ever closer. The clock on the wall ticks off the seconds, minutes, hours.
It won’t be long now.
It won’t be long, and I’ll doff my hoodie, throw my messenger bag over my shoulder and across my body, grab my keys and sunnies and begin the slow march toward the door.
Then out the door. Across the parking lot. To the car. And then the drive. I’ll pull into the driveway and leave the car idling for a few seconds, a minute, maybe five. Eyes kinda glazed over and staring at the house. With any luck, I won’t be crying.
I don’t want to go inside. Killing the engine and going into that house will open the gate I’ve firmly leaned against all week. Trying to keep myself sane enough to make it through work and tutoring.
But I’ll kill the engine, and that will kill a part of me. I’ll grab my bag, my hoodie, my keys. I’ll trudge up the porch and let myself into the house. I’ll lock the door behind me, carefully place my things on the chest in the living room. I’ll greet the kitties and make sure they’re fed and watered. No veggie patch tending today…the drought has finally broken, so it’s drizzling out.
I’ll crank the air down to arctic proportions. And then I’ll crawl into bed, work on finishing up FMAB this weekend, maybe. That, at least, would be better than laying huddled in the dark, allowing the darkness to take over again.
This is how I greet the weekend. And I am dreading it. This dread sits like an iron lead in my gut, but the closer the clock ticks to five, the more molten the iron ball gets. And it spreads and radiates through me until I can focus on nothing else.
I think I’m gonna be sick.