I just have to get a little something off my chest.  I have a long, weekday, commute.  It involves trains (real, diesel, trains), subway, and a bit of walking and driving on each end.  It makes for a long day and, for better or worse, permits me contact with a great many people.  From the nice folks whom I see daily on my train to the random newspaper vendors/coupon pushers/donut salesmen outside the subway stops.

It is to the latter collective, specifically those at Foggy Bottom, that I address my next thoughts:

At seven a.m. on Friday morning, it is not appropriate to wish me a nice weekend.  You want to wish me well?  How about, “good luck crossing the street on the way to work” before we get all ahead of ourselves and talk about the weekend.  I still have to survive the morning and the afternoon before I can even begin thinking about the weekend because, if drop my focus for a minute, some asshole in a truck is going to come around the corner and ruin my whole day.  And my weekend.  That could be either a figurative or a literal truck.  Who knows.  If I’m busy thinking about drinking beers on Sunday afternoon, I may never know what hit me.

So you save your “Have a Good Weekend” for some one who has Friday off.  Maybe for the college student struggling with her suitcase en route to the airport, or the hospital patient in the paper gown and robe who’s smoking a cigarette and leaning on his IV stand.  Perhaps you could call up someone in Asia where it’s already afternoon and their weekend is actually upon them. Or, maybe, you could save it for me, when I’m hauling ass home tonight. You’ve almost made me more paranoid than usual as I go through my morning; worried that my next step will be upon a land mine of weekend work.

Thanks a lot.

Thank you for hearing me out, folks. 

Be careful out there.