It’s hard to look forward to the weekend when what stands between you and freedom from the daily grind is … well, work.

Technically, I get to complain about dreading Friday just once every six weeks. (Maybe four or five, actually, now that our dear friend has left us, and The Office is “seeking a replacement”.) Still. Who likes working weekends? Unless it’s a four-hour shift taking tables, when both a wad of cash and a semi-early night at least is in sight.

From 2 to 11 p.m., I’m in charge responsible for any murder, mayhem, shenanigans and the like that causes any kind of “major” ruckus in City X. (So all you pre-Mardi Gras/Superbowl roughnecks, BE-HAVE.) And because instead of making dinner plans or looking forward to a night with pals I’ll be photographing teenagers with painted faces cheering U-RAH-RAH at a high school basketball game, D will be MIA till Sunday.

Understandably.

Is it really worth the drive and effort to together at 11:30 p.m.? Well, worth it, yes, but rational? I think not.

I know I should stifle the complaining. Here and now. Because I bet the majority of Americans DO work weekends. Serving, as a cashier at Wal-Mart, automotive repairman, plumber, tow truck operator. I mean, maybe running around after high-schoolers and typing my little keys on the computer isn’t quite as bad as unclogging a fraternity toilet after a Saturday night booze-fest.

Hm. When I put it that way …Yesss. Hello, Friday. At least I’m two days closer to Sunday, when with any luck I’ll be LMAO at the best commercials ever. Because, seriously, who cares who wins the Superbowl now? (No offense.)