Anyway, I don't run the soccer office anymore. I haven't for years. I work at home, and my husband comes home for lunch every single day. We eat sandwiches, or leftovers, or whatever happens to be on hand. Except on Wednesdays. On that glorious day my husband arrives, fast food bags in hand, and cheers of jubilation fill the air. Taco Bueno day survives! May it ever be so.
So what's the big deal, you might ask? One day filled with spicy, cheesy goodness is to be celebrated. And that would be true if it was just the one day. But it's not. Now it's my whole week. Dance Class Monday, Girls Day Tuesday, TacoBueno Wed, Thursday-- thank goodness is still searching for it's own identity, Grand baby Friday, and Hubby Cooks Breakfast Saturday and Sunday.
Obviously, that's not all I do on those days. I write everyday, too. But my writing schedule is shaped by those events. Carefully plotted and planned to fit those parameters. I have always been relaxed, unstructured, and fancy free. Some might say unorganized, muddled, and flighty. But the point is I laughed at my friends who treated Meat Loaf Monday or Laundry Day Tuesday like a religious observance. Alas, my weekly routine has turned into a set of those old panties with a different day of the week emblazoned across the front.
Except for Thursdays. Run, Thursday, Run! (Shouted in a voice like Richard Harris at the end of Camelot) And if you're too young to remember Richard Harris and that movie, you probably don't remember Day of the Week undies, either.