A week consists of 168 hours. You’d know this if you’ve ever worked over 100 of them during a seven-day stretch.
My own fault, really. Just couldn’t say no to anyone. I was teaching five courses, at two colleges located miles apart. My band had just signed a record deal, and we were in the middle of recording our first (and only) album. We were also gigging two or three nights a week (Thursday–Saturday), and rehearsing a couple more. For some reason, I was working in an insurance office, part-time. And to top it all off, I was preparing for oral and comprehensive exams.
It came to pass that there was this particular Thursday in March where the band couldn’t find any bookings. I also knew that the owner of the insurance office would be on vacation then, so I didn’t have to go in the following morning. That meant I had a Thursday night all to myself, and I knew it three weeks in advance.
I eagerly anticipated all the fun and mischief I’d have that Thursday night. I made so many plans over those twenty-one days. Maybe I’d go to this bar, or that nightclub. Maybe, I’d hook up with this friend, or that; this woman, or that. I imagined so many possibilities ranging from bowling, to movies, to Broadway. Whatever I did, I had every intention of staggering home dead drunk, muttering to myself, “Damn! That was fun.”
I counted down until the awaited Thursday begrudgingly came. Giddy, I taught my classes at one school, took the 2-Train to the second. Finished there. And on the ride home, I savored over what I thought would be the night of my life. When I came back to the apartment, I saw it was approaching six o’clock. Nothing in Manhattan really starts until 10:00. So instead of just waiting around, drinking alone in the cold, I’d kill a couple of hours with a short nap.
When I woke up, my VCR coldly alerted me that it was now 3:47 the next morning. Closing time was in thirteen minutes. If I wanted to salvage so much as a tequila shot with L, I’d really have to hustle to put on my clothes and get downstairs. I wasted precious time trying to find my Harley boots before realizing I just wasn’t going to make it.
Best laid plans, right?
And so here in 2017, I had great plans for a series. I still intend to do it. Trouble was, I intended to do it long ago. My freelancing gigs were especially draining since I greedily decided I’d work for both clients at the same time. I thought to myself, Hey, you’ve worked over 100 hours in a week in your life. Eighty shouldn’t be a problem.
I forgot. I was in my twenties and thirties at the time. I guess I can cop the lame excuse that I was young and dumb enough to accept that workload, and had enough energy to survive it. I don’t have any excuses for doing it this year.
Which leads me to make another lame excuse for why the upcoming series is delayed. I apologize, and hope you are all well—those of you still tuning in, at least.
And for those of you who are no longer tuning in......we’re gonna talk about you behind your back.
My own fault, really. Just couldn’t say no to anyone. I was teaching five courses, at two colleges located miles apart. My band had just signed a record deal, and we were in the middle of recording our first (and only) album. We were also gigging two or three nights a week (Thursday–Saturday), and rehearsing a couple more. For some reason, I was working in an insurance office, part-time. And to top it all off, I was preparing for oral and comprehensive exams.
It came to pass that there was this particular Thursday in March where the band couldn’t find any bookings. I also knew that the owner of the insurance office would be on vacation then, so I didn’t have to go in the following morning. That meant I had a Thursday night all to myself, and I knew it three weeks in advance.
I eagerly anticipated all the fun and mischief I’d have that Thursday night. I made so many plans over those twenty-one days. Maybe I’d go to this bar, or that nightclub. Maybe, I’d hook up with this friend, or that; this woman, or that. I imagined so many possibilities ranging from bowling, to movies, to Broadway. Whatever I did, I had every intention of staggering home dead drunk, muttering to myself, “Damn! That was fun.”
I counted down until the awaited Thursday begrudgingly came. Giddy, I taught my classes at one school, took the 2-Train to the second. Finished there. And on the ride home, I savored over what I thought would be the night of my life. When I came back to the apartment, I saw it was approaching six o’clock. Nothing in Manhattan really starts until 10:00. So instead of just waiting around, drinking alone in the cold, I’d kill a couple of hours with a short nap.
When I woke up, my VCR coldly alerted me that it was now 3:47 the next morning. Closing time was in thirteen minutes. If I wanted to salvage so much as a tequila shot with L, I’d really have to hustle to put on my clothes and get downstairs. I wasted precious time trying to find my Harley boots before realizing I just wasn’t going to make it.
Best laid plans, right?
And so here in 2017, I had great plans for a series. I still intend to do it. Trouble was, I intended to do it long ago. My freelancing gigs were especially draining since I greedily decided I’d work for both clients at the same time. I thought to myself, Hey, you’ve worked over 100 hours in a week in your life. Eighty shouldn’t be a problem.
I forgot. I was in my twenties and thirties at the time. I guess I can cop the lame excuse that I was young and dumb enough to accept that workload, and had enough energy to survive it. I don’t have any excuses for doing it this year.
Which leads me to make another lame excuse for why the upcoming series is delayed. I apologize, and hope you are all well—those of you still tuning in, at least.
And for those of you who are no longer tuning in......we’re gonna talk about you behind your back.
