Have keyboard, will click and clack

It's Thursday morning, or afternoon, as you read this. 

You're almost at this week's Finish Line. With plans, or no plans, for a great weekend. A weekend away from deadlines, timesheets and Chad, that guy in the Sacramento office who's always pointing out your grammatical errors and has apparently done his PhD dissertation on the difference between an en dash and an em dash.

Maybe you'll go to that new movie that's racking up all the awards this season. Even though it's in a foreign language and you can't stand the idea of subtitles. 

Maybe you'll meet up with Lou and Sadie, the pickleballers who won't stop talking and can't stop talking about pickleball and their new pickleball rackets and custom made pickleball shoes and matchy matching pickleball outfits.

Or maybe you'll just head over to that new Dim Sun restaurant where all the food is brown but it doesn't matter because the beer is really cold. And cheap.

The point is, good times are within reach. 

And then suddenly it's Sunday Night. And they're not. 

The dread settles in. And with it the gnawing of your stomach lining and the anticipation of more pointless Zoom meetings, an elaborate rant on the proper use of the Oxford comma from Chad (and others), and a cavalcade of Powerpoint decks that, if printed on paper, would derail a freight train, if I may use that unfortunately timely reference.

Unlike you, I have been relieved of the Sunday Night Blues. 

This came to my attention last Sunday Night when I took account of my own unusually relaxed disposition. Because, for the first time in the last 2 & 1/2 years, I'm officially unemployed. Where the grass always seemed to be greener.

That is not to say that this side of the yard is not without its unsightly weeds and annoying little patches where no grass, or even weeds, seem to grow. 

If I'm to avoid ending up in a dirty nursing home, I'll have to be more careful with the spending of my scheckels. Or, to be completely honest, the spending of my kid's scheckels. I'm currently in SKI (Spend Kid's Inheritance) mode. 

But I'd hate to leave them with nothing more than my old ratty T-shirts and a 15 year old flatscreen TV that isn't equipped with all those newfangled streaming apps.

And of course, I'll need to be prepared to cover my inevitable skyrocketing healthcare costs. These days, I have to drop over $1000 just to be included in my doctor's concierge club. A thousand bucks for the right to see my doctor, before I see my doctor. 

I should consider doing a similar arrangement for my newly revived freelance business. 

"Oh, you want to me to come to a briefing, pay me. You want to book me, pay me. You want I should answer your email inquiries, pay me." (Apologies to Ray Liotta)

In short, it's the same rat race, just a different wheel.