“Tuesday,” I repeated, my voice rising quickly on the last syllable, a vocal jump toward the edge of inquiry. “Did you say Tuesday?” I asked, now fully committed to the line of questioning.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll pick you at 7.”
I put it on my calendar. I checked again to make sure the day was right. Then I started wondering what Wednesday would be like. Would I find the strength to carry on?
Honestly, I don’t know why the idea of grabbing a beer with a friend on a Tuesday night registered the way it did. I’ve done social things on plenty of Tuesdays. And there’s a fairly good chance I’ve had a beer or two on any given weeknight over the past 20 years—granted less so as time moves on—but it’s hardly a shock. Tuesday is just another day, not quite the hump and 24 hours better than Monday.
But, whereas a lifetime ago I would have seized the alliteration of Two-for-Tuesday specials like I was investing in pork bellies (I wasn’t a vegetarian then), I am now content dedicating the day to tacos and television.
Perhaps it is because school is back in session, and with it all the early morning responsibilities that summer had delayed by an hour or two. I have to get up early. I’m working at least 12 hours per day. My wife is working long hours an hour away. There is homework. There are chores. By the time we eat dinner it’s pushing 8 p.m., then dessert if we’re lucky. Then, I decide if I’m going to continue working until well after midnight or try to go to bed and wake up before the sun. I usually do both, staying up too late and waking up too early. There are deadlines, meetings and all the trappings of lower middle-class success.
I guess I was too tired to go out on a Tuesday, or rather, the idea of it made me too tired. There would be walking to the barstool, and then sitting on it, and looking at a menu of fried foods and microwaved munchies. And the bar in question insists on serving everything in an ice-covered chalice, so that’s a pain in the ass to lift. Oh, the whole thing is such an ordeal. Plus, I’d have to leave the kids alone for a couple of hours. And yet, I really wanted to see my friend.
Tuesday, man. Tuesday.
Then it arrived.
I woke up worried. There was a long list of things to be done, which, granted, were the same things that need to be done most days, but now — there was pressure! I was on the clock. Meetings. Deadlines. Dishes. Then I needed to make sure homework, chores and dinner were all completed an hour earlier than usual. I took a shower in the middle of the afternoon.
I was going out for a beer at 7 p.m. on a Tuesday.
About 6 o’clock the phone rang.
“Hey, man. I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m beat. Any chance we can do this a different day?”
“How’s next Wednesday?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll pick you at 7.”
I put it on my calendar.
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