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When the Weekend Comes....

When I was younger, so much younger than today…. This time of the week would signal the beginning of something….

The weekend was a beacon of light – a light that signified adventure!

For many years in my youth, the weekend was simply a legitimised portion of time, devoted to the myriad of opportunities I would take, to wear little and drink lots.

In truth, these activities would often spill over into the weekdays, with little care for my work-related responsibilities. But even if I had gone out every single night of the week, there was something magical about Friday morning….

A hum of electricity would course through me all day – every inch of me aware, that I was one shift away from awesomeness! My friends were my partners in crime and together, we could take on the world. The hangovers were rotten, but they were a small price to pay, for the memories we were making.

This morning, as I made my way to school drop off, I flicked the radio to Triple J. Callers were phoning in, to brag about their weekend plans – festival fun at Splendour in the Grass. They sounded so pumped and I felt a pang of envy…

Tonight, I will take my 7-year-old to her ballet class. The most exciting part of my evening will consist of hopping into my bed, and knowing that my electric blanket has succeeded, in pre-warming my sheets.

Who knows what tomorrow holds!

Glory Days – not just the Bruce Springsteen classic - but the kind that involved me singing too loudly, linked arm-in-arm with the only other people who understood, that the lyrics of each song, were all about us! The kind that involved public transport, long, drunken walks from destination to destination and not caring one bit, that nobody really knew how we were getting home.

If I don’t know how I’m getting home now, I simply won’t go out!

Weekends often involved way too much alcohol. My pre-drinks had pre-drinks!

Shots, shakers and slushies were remembered fondly the next day, no matter how badly we felt. I could have bought a house, with the money I spent on booze, but where’s the fun in that?

I enjoyed my wildest days, without Big Brother’s watchful gaze. My youth was not captured on Facebook, or Snapchat. I was one of the only people taking photos with my trusty Kodak. We had no idea if our selfies had worked, until I developed the film!

My Nokia wasn’t capable of capturing a thing. My mobile phone acted simply as a phone with mobility…. whilst providing the occasional game of Snake.

The battery life lasted for days!

I ate Hungry Jacks and Maggi 2-Minute Noodles (Pizza Flavour) – the only food capable of soaking up the residual liquor…. I regret nothing!

I saw a news report last week that said, in no uncertain terms, that 37 is too old for clubbing. Of all the goddamn ages, this report chose mine. I felt a little victimised, but couldn’t really argue with the truth of it. I absolutely love to dance, but have zero desire to line up outside a club.

Besides, is Inflation even open anymore?

What I really want, is a little adventure!

I want to gather up my mates and drink, as though tomorrow won’t begin with a screaming baby. I want to head to the city and not care about how we are getting home. I want to laugh and sing and eat onion rings at 3 in the morning, and not worry about how much money I spent doing it!

Most of all, I want to combine these activities, with sensible shoes and weather-appropriate clothing, because I do not miss the outfits!


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