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I was in a long-term relationship for the better part of nine years throughout college. We did some pretty stupid, crazy, and fun as hell stuff together. As college came to an end, our “young and in love” story didn’t, as it followed me to graduate school. I didn’t think we could be any more head-over-heels for one another, but actually, the added stress brought us closer. Graduate school ended, and I was forced against my will into the real world. With work came adult problems, and with that came turmoil in the relationship; however, I can’t bring myself to break up with Thursday nights. I just can’t. It’s like trying to quit meeting up with a really good hookup. You know it’s not a good idea, and you know it’s not going anywhere, but it’s just too fun to stop.
In undergrad, Thursday night in my college town was THE night to just really get out there and make some bad decisions. Our strip of bars had $5 all-you-can-drink longneck specials and sometimes we would over-pack a house party for the under-21-without-a-fake-ID crowd. I would put four hour and 15 minute classes back to back on any given day between Monday and Thursday just to not have class on Friday. Only piss-poor planners and people with majors requiring true dedication had class on Friday. I was definitely not the former when it came to making time for my “extracurriculars,” and just no on the latter.
While keeping Fridays open during undergrad took some effort (or lack thereof in some instances, depending how you look at it) graduate school was a pure stroke of Thursday night luck, as we didn’t even have the option for class on Friday. Praise the genius in charge of that call. Apparently Fridays were to be used for studying and/or internships. I used the time to attempt to wean myself off of college-esque partying, as I was trying to become a “professional.” It just so happens that I wasn’t the only one with an idea of that sort, and when a few of “your kind” get together, it’s like if you took the Betty Ford Center residents on a field trip to Tijuana–shit’s going to happen, and happen shit did.
The appeal of Thursday night is undeniable. It’s almost Friday, which is cause for celebration in its own right; your brain is starting to shut down after overuse the past four workdays; Thursday has the best drink specials; and you deserve to blow off some steam as the light at the end of the workweek tunnel gets brighter. I’m not sure what jacko decided workweeks should be five days, but statistics show employee productivity increases substantially when three-day weekends are the standard. When I say statistics, I mean numbers I made up in my head.
A two-day weekend gives you exactly two options. The first is to have fun and party, and the second is to get things done that need to get done. If I choose the first option, even if it’s only one night of the two officially available for boozing, I use the rest of the weekend for recovery. If you think I’m going to over-serve myself all day and night on Saturday then get up and clean the house on Sunday, you’re out of your damn mind. Don’t get into logistics with me about ways to make it work; you know you don’t want to do that adult shit you’re too tired to do during the week on your weekend “free” time, either. If I use the weekend to be productive, I’m just even more pissed off come Monday that I had to waste valuable party time. Life is short, you know?
To mitigate this adult-life predicament, you should use the same “thinking ahead” logic you used in college when you knew there was no way you’d contribute anything of value to the world on Friday (except funny stories from the night before). Do as much of Friday’s work Monday–Thursday if possible, without divulging your grand scheme. In turn, do whatever suits your fancy Thursday night, and just bite that Friday bullet when it gets there. Who can hide his or her Friday hangover the best seems to be a postgrad pastime anyway. If you are strong-willed enough to make it to Friday without accidentally intoxicating yourself, just rage to your heart’s desire all weekend. On my deathbed, I seriously doubt I look back and think, “Man, I really wished I had gotten the house clean that one weekend instead of party balls with my friends.”