The Thursday Night Club

Many years ago, in another life, my schedule was such that my actual “weekend” was not the traditional Friday and Saturday nights, but Thursday and Friday.  Single and unencumbered, I found myself at one or another watering hole on more than a few of those nights, doing the things single and unencumbered people do.  Before long, I noticed a very discernable difference in the crowds on those particular nights.  Aside from the fact that there were typically more couples on Fridays, there was also an air of loneliness, desperation, and anticipation among the former group.  We sat, clutching our beverage, gaze fixed on some TV or other diversion, trying to blend in, a look of grit and determination our mask.  We were tweaking our game.  These were the practice laps for the big race.

There was anticipation, for anticipation held promise, fleeting and surreal though it was.

Those of us in the club differed in other ways.  We did not have the sway, the connections, that feeling of being welcome and accepted as we sashayed in.  The environment was not natural, indigenous, or becoming.  No one trumpeted our arrival.

We were not on the “A List”.

The Thursday Night Club was not an actual club at all, but more a state of mind; a state of being.  It was about appearing to leave on our own terms, having more pressing matters with which to concern ourselves.  It was driving home, thinking of unfolded laundry, and wondering if those leftover chicken fajitas were still good after four days in the refrigerator, and hoping there was something good on HBO or ESPN.

It was believing that Friday would be better.