The Hump-Day Theory
The hump-day theory: Monday is depressing because the weekend is over; Tuesday, it seems as though the weekend will never end; but on Wednesday, it’s all downhill from there. The weekend is so close you can smell it: All you have to do is make it through Thursday, because on Friday there are three, two, one house and you’re home free. The weekend is what keeps us going during the week; we all need something to look forward to.
“EEEEERRRRRRRRRR,” my alarm blares from the foot of my bed. I grumble, smash the clock, and fall out of what I like to think of as salvation. It’s yet another heart-crushing Monday. I don my clothes, wash my face, brush my teeth, and grab a bite to eat before I rush off to school for jazz band. Once there, I’ll grab my biology books and scurry on over to the band room. I fake my way through Gordon Goodwin’s “Sing, Sang, Sung,” and then, to ensure my timely arrival, I’ll sprint on over to my first class. I finish off the rest of my study-hall-less school day trying to get away with as little homework as possible. Promptly after school, I get the “privilege” of enduring two hours of Mr. Weber’s mind-numbing “favors.” (also referred to as driver’s ed.) After counting down the last minutes of class, I hurry home to grab my music and a snack, which occasionally will hold me over until the next morning, and am whisked off to Flute Chorale rehearsal. The bulk of my homework is completed on the car ride there. Once I arrive, I sit through an hour and fifteen minutes of the most cruel and unusual punishment ever inflicted. In the clock-less room, I find myself staring at the ceiling wondering why the checkered pattern is so messed up in one spot. The remainder (or not) of my homework is completed on the way home and at my house. By the time I get home, it’s 8:30, and, if time permits, I do a bit of fraternizing to ensure that I’m not alienated by my classmates. Once this whole ordeal is over, I’m exhausted and have nothing on my mind but sleep. So, I’ll brush my teeth, wash my face, and throw on my pajamas in a zombie-like manner.
With a schedule like this, fatigue, stress, irritability, and certainly looking forward to the weekend are automatic. If my mind weren’t telling me, “Only x days till the weekend,” I don’t think I’d make it. I’d throw in the towel with an, “It’s not even worth it.” I might as well stop right here and let life take its toll. If there’s nothing to look forward to, then there’s nothing to keep us going. No one could have put it better than little Orphan Annie, when she said, “…It’s only a day away.”
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