
Saturday, August 6, 2016
Have A Nice Weekend
"Have a nice weekend!" Today, Friday, I had my two sessions with balance trainers, and each of the two young men asked in the course of the exercises "What are your plans for the weekend?" and I had to reply that I had not even noticed that today was Friday and that we were as they say embarking on a weekend. I could tell from their facial expression that they were sympathizing with an old geezer who had nothing but emptiness and loneliness in the two days looming ahead. I began to feel sorry for myself, but then I recalled that my husband mentioned how happy he was that Friday had arrived and he could do absolutely nothing on Saturday, the day upon which he liked to sleep in, and rest. And I began to recall the week. Monday night we had a young couple to dinner, several time consuming courses designed for their exacting palates, and which wore me out. Tuesday I spent recovering from Monday night. Wednesday I had two balance training sessions which left me scarcely able to walk, but satisfied with some kind of progress, and then we ordered in pizza and a professor friend of ours came to dinner and we talked about his coming trip thither and yon. Thursday I was so crippled from the training sessions on Wednesday that I was happy to lie about and then hobble over to the nearby mall for a pedi-mani, as they call it. Friday back to the torture of the balance sessions and having to endure the two young studs asking me my plans for the weekend. Then of course we were scheduled to go to an art opening and meet a friend and then the three of us went out to dinner. Everyone relishes in the televisiion show "Downton Abbey" when the Dowager Countess of Grantham asked the question "What is a weekend?" when the idea had not been invented. I remember when I first had a job as an office boy in 1948 in New York City at an office of West Coast film directors they were pleased to tell me that the work week ended at twelve noon on Saturday. I have been retired for twenty years and quite forgotten how it was in those days when I went out Friday evening and got drunk and with any luck scored with some guy. I grew up in a home where the breadwinner my surgeon father died when I was six and left enough money that my mother neither had to take a job outside the home nor dismiss the servants who waited on her, and thus breakfast for seven days of the week were of the same texture. The only mark to the seven days was that Sundays a large formal dinner with invited guests was served at one o'clock in the broad light of day. This was after the communion service in the Episcopal Church downtown and before the staff filed out for an afternoon of freedom after they had served us. We by the way made our own popcorn which served as Sunday evening repast, eaten before the large radio broadcasting our favorites. Well, I guess we had what passed for a "nice weekend."
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