Everyone knows that Tuesday is the worst day of the work week. There’s no end in sight, really. Many scholars do not know this, but when Dante is passing through the gates of Hell in “Inferno” and he sees that sign which reads “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here” it’s actually referring to Tuesday.
My Tuesday morning started out much like my Monday morning. I got ready for the day, threw on a pair of pants which I classify as work pants because I wear them to work at least three times a week and never anywhere else, and I popped my headphones on so I could listen to the new ‘This American Life.’
But something felt off as I got on the train. I felt even stranger when I rolled into my office building ten minutes late, got a cup of piping hot Cafe Bustelo from the break room and settled in at my desk for what I assumed was going to be a subpar day.
It all came to a screeching, demoralizing halt when I realized why I was feeling so weird. To explain, I need to take you back. Back to Monday night. Back to the time immediately following a half-assed workout at my local Planet Fitness. Please don’t call me a peasant for going to Planet Fitness. It costs ten dollars a month and it’s an adequate fucking gym, okay? Anyways, I get back to my place around 7:30 or 8:00 p.m.
To my delight, I had remembered to defrost some chicken breasts. Famished from a long day in the cubes and an even longer forty-five minutes at the gym, I quickly turned my stove on and cooked up four chicken breasts with paprika, garlic salt, pepper, and freshly squeezed lemon juice.
Chicken pesto sandwiches were on the brain on Monday night, and I enjoyed one on my couch while Monday Night Football began.
I put the remaining three chicken breasts in some tupperware and closed my refrigerator, vowing to myself that I would come up and make another chicken pesto sandwich to bring into the office for Tuesday the next morning.
I bring you back now to present day. I am sitting here wallowing in despair. I got up twenty minutes earlier than I usually do to prepare my chicken pesto sandwich this morning.
I put it on a brioche bun and I even packed two side dishes: a bag of white cheddar cheez it grooves (literally the best snack food ever to enter my mouth), and some carrots and hummus.
Do you know where all of this stuff is? It’s sitting on my kitchen counter. So not only will I not be enjoying a delicious chicken pesto sandwich for lunch, I will also be missing out on it for dinner.
You can’t leave a chicken pesto sandwich sitting out like that when you live in an apartment with no air conditioning. It will be gross and soggy by the time I get home tonight, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
The cheez it grooves can be salvaged, but I don’t have a lot of hope for my carrots or hummus. Those two things will more than likely be getting tossed with the C.P. sandwich. I spent far too much money on booze this past weekend, and I don’t get paid until this coming Friday. It looks like I’ll be eating the free mints in my offices lobby for lunch today. Fuck Tuesdays..
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