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Your phone has been buzzing at your desk all day. You sit in your ergonomic desk chair idly counting the minutes tick by on an office clock across the room. It’s been a long week to say the least, and you’re not entirely sure what the weekend has in store for you.
There’s a feeling of dread that one starts to get as the weekend approaches. It’s not unlike the anxiety that sets in late on a Sunday afternoon. Weekends are falsely identified as time that should not be squandered lazing around in sweatpants and a ratty gym shirt.
Jerry Seinfeld summed it up perfectly when he asked a question that I think is on everyone’s mind, “Why do I always have the feeling that everybody’s doing something better than me on Saturday afternoons?”
You’re supposed to be out doing things and enjoying that money you worked so tirelessly for with other people of your socioeconomic background and upbringing. Wasting away on your couch all weekend is much maligned and frowned upon.
I maintain that weekends are for whatever the hell you want them to be. You want to head straight from work to a watering hole for a few domestic pops straight after work on a Friday? Be my guest. But you’ve got other options at your disposal.
So back to the office for a moment. It’s getting late on this Friday afternoon, and while you have had some interesting propositions flash across the screen of your iPhone for the night ahead, one thought and one object, cannot escape your mind: your bed.
Evasive, non-committal replies abound to friends, distant acquaintances, and even family members who want to know what you’re up to this weekend. Two options lay in front of you – almost like a red pill and a blue pill, no?
You’ve entertained the thought of going out on this seemingly uniform Friday night. A few cocktails, some laughs with friends, and maybe, just maybe, some girl takes enough interest in you and your personality to go home with you.
But what are the chances of that actually happening? Three out of ten? Maybe? The reality of the situation at hand is that you’re going to go out, you’re going to get drunk, and you’re going to regret ever being out in the first place once that seventy or eighty dollar tab blindsides you at the end of the night. This is the red pill.
You stay in Wonderland, and you attempt with all of your might to see how far the rabbit hole goes.
You look at the other end of the spectrum and can almost taste that Wild Blueberry Vanilla candle from Trish McEvoy on your bedside table. It’s a fragrance that reminds you of autumn and plentiful harvests outdoors.
Your television, tablet, or laptop flickers and casts different colors as some movie you’re only half-watching drones on. You’ve got a cocktail next to that magnificent candle you’ve just lit on your bedside table. Your drinking for taste tonight, not inebriation.
Maybe it’s a bourbon, neat. Perhaps a vodka-water accompanied by a lemon wedge. It could even be a glass of ice water. Whatever it is that you’re drinking, you’re relaxed. And as that movie or tv show continues to play you don’t have a single, solitary care in the world, for your phone which has been beeping, dinging, swooshing, and buzzing all afternoon is at long last on Do Not Disturb mode. This is the blue pill.
So what’s it gonna be, hotshot? The red pill or the blue pill? .
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