Friday Night Blues

Friday night's commute is always the time I use to process the week.  It's a chance to digest what I just went through to allow myself to relax over the weekend before getting back in the trenches on Monday.  Two trains and a bus give me plenty of opportunity (hopefully) to separate work from life and be in good spirits as I walk through the door at home.

After a particularly draining week, I found myself succumbing to a strong malaise, the looming start of a new week overshadowing the brief respite of the weekend.  On the bus for the last leg of the commute, I tried to pull the mental health Hail Mary of convincing myself that I was tired and everything would be looking up after a good night's sleep.  That train of thought failed, as such desperate attempts often do.

As I stepped off the bus, I was in close proximity to Winthrop House of Pizza.  Wouldn't a buffalo chicken sandwich make you feel better? a voice whispered in my head, one I'm all too familiar with.  I could just walk across the street and chat with Jimmie, the amicable owner of WHoP, shooting the shit about what video games we were playing as the chicken deep-fried.  I could taste all the nuances of the sandwich as I thought about it, everything from the tang of the hot sauce to the oh-so-slightly burned edges of the roll.  There would of course be a cold Coke to wash it down.  Wouldn't I feel better if I just let myself enjoy that?

For a brief moment, it seemed like the best fucking idea in the world, perhaps the best idea I ever had.  I was an addict having an addict's moment, believing that continued self-destruction is somehow the solution to all the other problems in life. As if, after the last bite and last sip, everything that was bothering me would be forgotten.

I'd like to pretend that I found some noble reserve of self control at that moment. In truth, I was overcome by such self-loathing at the notion of once again becoming a victim of destructive impulses and short-term relief that some instinctive drive below my cognitive process slammed down on the desire like a sprung trap. I would walk home and put together a healthy vegan meal from the leftovers in the fridge.

Frankly, I was surprised. I had no answer for the impulse, no reasoning to curtail it.  There was just something deep within me that was just so fucking sick of the same rituals of self-destruction, of living by impulse instead of purpose, that I had no choice but to do the right thing.

A buffalo chicken sandwich is not damnation, nor is a veggie burger salvation.  But the summation of our actions, and whether they're guided by impulse or purpose, will define our fates.  I want to start to control mine instead of being the victim of the seductive whispers of malaise.  Bad days do not have to become bad lives.

Now, time to enjoy that veggie burger.