Cliche vs. TraditionFriday night.
For many (most, more than fewer), Friday night has a connotation of abandon and freedom. The world unbuckles it's restrictive dress and breathes freely. The knots of ties become loose and wide, almost stylish.
Drinking happens on Fridays. There is a restaurant chain based on the concept of thanking a diety that it is, Friday. They boast, it can be Friday every day. A day to be celebrated with colorful drink in large-belled glasses.
Fridays at 52nd Street and 9th Avenue in Manhattan are festive below. Well-groomed groups of men headed for Therapy. Less fashionable workers from the nondescript Midtown offices sew themselves into the fabric of Coppersmith's and eatery. I can hear their jovial conversations punctuate the steady swoosh of cabs, lights out, unavailable.
Fridays are my Sunday. My workweek begins. My stomach restricts with the unease of knowing that, for the next few days, my life belongs to the masses. For all the drinks poured, there is a hand pouring.
As I scoff at the revelers, I fear I am guilty of the same blind stumbling, the same predictable rut. Even deviant behavior seems to follow a pattern. That is why I am readying myself for the shift. The ground below has proven itself unstable, and I curl my feet under, poised for the leap.