Each has an individual feel. Some are plush and overstuffed as armchairs, cushioned with extra days. Others are fuzzworn, thread-stretched, paltry days to rest, to work. Neither of these happens over such weakened weekends.
I once wrote about most weekends, neatly recapped them on Sunday evenings. Now I stretch Sunday as far as it will go. It stings when I’m snapped into Monday morning and I’m sitting on the subway to work or walking the long blocks to the school. It’s not that I don’t enjoy my job, but that I want even more to define my own job(s). That’s what the weekend is.
I’m thinking all of this as Cade and I schlep through Brooklyn. It is freezing out and we stayed on the subway for half and hour to go to the Annie Leibowitz exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum. Once aboveground, Cade pranced ahead of me and patted some clean snow into a ball and threw it at the padded bottom of my down coat. I know the coat is imperturbible, but I shrieked anyway.
We walked into the museum and listened to the announcement about the two hour wait. Should we have stayed, we would have an hour to peruse the museum before it closes. An hour for $12. After deliberating, Cade and I left the long, buzzing line.
So we are walking, because it is cold and dark. We are searching for my holy grail, our warmth in the cold expanse of pavement - Target. Cade doesn’t have a hat, scarf, or gloves and is losing feeling in all of these parts. I promise I will buy him at least one of these items, should we make it to the shopping center. My toes are numb in my ballerina flats, the wind rattles every tooth in my head. Cade is ahead of me every step of the way. He dashes about, because his legs are longer and his body so much more uncomfortable.
At one point, Cade sees a Brooklynite precariously carrying a few boxes of beer in the cold. “Target’s this way, right?” Cade asks. The guy stops with a sigh. “Yeah. Waaaaay down there.” He looks at us like we just pointed east and asked, “China’s that way, right?”
Being carless and so clearly out of our element is amusement for the masses. When Cade and I walk past a group of black kids, one of them screams in a high-pitched voice that is universally understood as affected honkey voice, “Hey, Billy! Hi, Bobby!” I mutter, “They’re so racist. They act like they’ve never seen white people before.” Cade replies, “Yeah. And we would never say, ‘Hey, Rastus! Hi, Jamal!’ or something.” Before I can shrug my shoulders, Cade is skipping in front of me in gleeful honkey mode, “C’mon, Billy!” he yells at me. “We’re late - the rest of the country club is waiting for us! I LOVE backgammon!”
Once at Target, Cade will inform me that he thinks that he has pulled his groin while skipping. I laugh the first three times, but then start hissing, “Stop! You’re embarrassing me now.” When you’re perusing the world market home accessories section, you’d be amazed how many people will turn and stare at someone who says “groin.” Oh, and “my” coupled with “groin.” Answer: All of them. The whole department. Perhaps that entire floor.
Days later, Cade emails me with some mundane update. I respond, “How’s your groin?” I smile as I type it. Groin, groin, groin! It is a funny word, and might be slightly funnier amongst affordable imported vases.
“Innocent or lascivious question?” Cade’s reponse reads.
“I dunno. But it’s pretty hot that you can spell lascivious,” I type.
I’m ready for another weekend.
