Groundhog Day

I had the great pleasure of hanging out with a particularly hilarious friend over Thanksgiving.

After I had asked him how he was doing, and what was new, he embarked on a soliloquy about every Monday morning at work–where he is not only the boss, but “the elder.”

“It’s like f*cking Groundhog Day every Monday. All these guys in their twenties asking me, ‘Hey, how was your weekend?’ Maybe next time I’ll tell them:

‘OH MY GOD, it was INCREDIBLE. I can’t even BEGIN to tell you about it–in fact, I SHOULDN’T. It would make you feel SO JEALOUS, it wouldn’t be fair. It was OVER THE TOP. EPIC. TRULY.'”

I wish I could better convey his delivery; I laughed until I was a little teary.

If you’re under thirty and/or do not have kids, you may want to bury your head in the sand rather than continue reading.

It’s not like being a grown up or a parent is so awful, it’s just that this question “how was your weekend?” isn’t the right one to ask anymore.

How was my weekend?

Let’s see. I schlepped to Target and Michaels along with every other person on the planet–searching for the blue tri-board Miss Nine needs for her Blizzard project and presentation. There has evidently been a run on blue tri-board. (You will use white and you will not complain, small person.)  I laid awake one night worrying about one friend’s health and another’s imploding marriage. I tried to find a sitter so I might attend a holiday party. When that didn’t work, I tried offering time and a half. No luck. I sat on my kids until they acquiesced to do their homework, and then continually refocused them. It took three times more time than necessary to do the work–plus a lot of complaining. After the recycling bin handle broke, I swept broken glass off two flights of stairs in the rain.

I didn’t sleep in. I didn’t lie on the couch reading or listening to the rain. I didn’t stay out all night and go out for breakfast. Actually, that last one sounds awful, anyway.

There were fabulous moments. I was surrounded by people I love. I saw friends. I did some yoga. I laughed a lot. I devoured way more than my quota of deliciousness. I even went out one evening UNCHAPERONED. It really was a lovely weekend.

It’s just different, you know? Weekends do not equal time off.

I’m hoping someone out there will think of a more appropriate question for Monday mornings, something that twenty-two-year-olds can ask their elders without rubbing them the wrong way.

Published by

Beret Olsen

Writer, photographer, teacher, and part-time insomniac.

6 thoughts on “Groundhog Day”

  1. My girls were complaining this morning that they wouldn’t have anything “exciting” to say about what they did over break. Other people went to grandma’s house or on vacation somewhere, you know.
    Meanwhile, I was thinking how lovely it was that we stayed home and enjoyed ourselves 😉


  2. I saw a meme depicting the difference between a long weekend with kids (where the man rejoices in returning to work) and one w/o, where the man complains about going back. Your post does a better job at depicting the busy ambivalence of parenting on the weekends. Nice!


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