Fifty Out of Fifty-Two

The insanity of five out of seven days a week, 50 out of 52 weeks a year.  The rat race.  By the time Friday rolls around, whether it's psychological or physical, I'm lunging for the finish line.  Liberty is restricted to Saturday when there is a window of a few hours, usually after I run Cheshiahud Lake Union Loop.  I take this time to read.  Sunday is devoted to chores and watching football on television.  The life of an aging bachelor.

Of course it could be worse, and it has been.  Being jobless with no income is a poor substitute.  One has more time on his hands but looking for work is unpleasant and interviewing worse.  I was a "house husband" for several years.  I did all the cooking, shopping and cleaning while I worked a job taking care of flowers from spring through fall.  My winter hours were few.  I got a lot of reading done.  But my girlfriend/spouse who was the chief breadwinner was jealous and the carping about finding additional employment would always begin after Christmas.  So there's no pot of gold at the end of the house husband rainbow.

My day ends with a limp not a lunge.  A young co-worker spends the afternoon shotgunning pheromones throughout the office.  Outside rain pours down during my two-mile walk home.  There is one profound triumph of the will.  I manage to make it to the grocery store.