I am dreading work tomorrow, but not for the reasons you might assume. You see; work will be a welcome relief from the weekend past. Picture two days of getting over colds and no one getting along. Picture a day where Cheryl is the patient one. It wasn’t pretty.
So if the weekend was total crap, and I’m looking forward to a break from home, why am I dreading work? I’m going to have to relive my weekend a dozen times, every time well-meaning soul asks, “So how was your weekend.” They’ll say it in such a pleasant, well-rested tone, and I’m going to want to do some smacking. Oh, it won’t be anything physical. I know enough not to do anything overtly fire-able. I’m sure I’ll come up with the perfect verbal jab when the time comes, something just this side of the code of conduct, but it won’t be pretty.
So now I’m conflicted. I’m wide awake, up past my pathetic bed time, glad to be through with the day but dreading going to bed. I’m staying up later and later, thus assuring that tomorrow will be just as bad as I think it will be. Dude, It’s like the ultimate in self-fulfilling prophesies man!
**Note to our weekend guests: this had nothing to do with you. Our prevailing mood started sometime before the sun came up, well before you came over.