At least on Wednesdays I have the latest Onion to look forward to. I’m feeling a bit better today, still exhausted, still yearning for a bit of calm and peace, but definitely better. This past weekend was difficult. I realize that perhaps the reason I truly despise days like Valentine’s Day is because I despise the majority of people that go out to eat on Valentine’s Day. The ‘special occasion’ diners, the cheap ones, who think nothing of waiting four hours for a table (hello, this is Cleveland not New York City, NO PLACE is worth that sort of wait), who feel that the servers owe them not only spectacular service, but free food and degradation at their noble and powerful hands.

Or perhaps my attitude stems from those who insist on referring to 2/14 as Valen-TIME’s day. Um…does nobody else see the N? I’ll bet you assholes carve PUNKINS on Halloween too, and take many PITCHERS of your children. I though nothing could be worse than my high school American History teacher, teaching about so-and-so’s famous Calvary, and no, I’m not talking about the site of Jesus’ crucifixion, I’m talking about those soldiers on horseback, or his lessons on the famous Mormon prophet JOHN Smith (gee, and I could’ve sworn it was Joseph).

So, it is needless to say that the combination of working both Friday and Saturday nights took its toll. Sometimes it is difficult to calculate which is worse when you serve, the emotional toll or the pure physical exhaustion. Saturday night was purely the latter. I can ride my mountain bike on a trail for 30 miles without batting an eyelash, but it doesn’t even compare with ten solid hours of literally running from place to place, lifting stack after stack of heavy dishes, or filling my arms with entrée after entrée. You would think that I’d be used to it by now, but nights like that are still a shock to the system.

Sunday was my day of recovery, and what a beautiful day it was. Cold, yes, but it was wonderfully bright and sunny. That’s the third consecutive sunny Sunday that I’ve had off, and though I was still exhausted, I tried to take advantage. It took me a few hours to get moving, I have to admit. I didn’t leave the house until after I’d seen who was singing the National Anthem at this year’s Daytona 500, then get annoyed at George’s prattling before his, might I say emotionless and rather anti-climactic, “Gentleman Start Your Engines.” I also didn’t like his generalizations about race fans, and out of things to throw at my television screen, I headed out.

I decided to take a drive south through the national park, one of my favorite drives. Sam and I made the trip frequently, and often, when he and I would fight and I had to get out of the house, I’d drive this route at two, three, sometimes four in the morning to clear my head, to connect again. I love the winding roads, the trees, the abandoned barns. I made my way to Peninsula, one of my favorite little towns, past the ski slopes, near the river and the rail tracks. There were a few die-hard cyclists on the towpath, but not me, not yet. I need another fifteen, twenty degrees at least. I headed to an outdoor shop not far from the center of town, and realized when I pulled into the parking lot how close my dear, sweet Peninsula is to, oh say, Hudson, Home Of Yuppy Scum. After jockeying for a parking space between a Porshe and a Range Rover, I walked into the store with a chip on my shoulder the size of the Rock of Gibraltar. Getting elbowed by some asshole with a Patagonia-encased elbow while I was looking at backpacks didn’t help matters. I left in a huff.

Driving home I tried to come to terms with what exactly it is about those people I hate. Is it my own insecurities? I don’t really think so. They are so rude, so…elitist, and judgmental, and I just don’t know what else. If I had the job, the house, the Range Rover, would I be like that? Fuck no, is my loud, mental reply. I guess I don’t think that I could ever be that much of a snob, though I suppose I make a snap judgment about the driver of that Range Rover probably as quickly as they do about a guy behind the wheel of a beat-up pick-up truck with a Nascar sticker on the bumper. Does this make me the same? I’m not sure, and while I do make snap judgments (who doesn’t?), I’ll admit when I’m wrong, that I have been wrong often. Though I will say that I lived with my parents in a neighborhood where Range Rovers and Jags were the norm, I loved a man who dropped out of high school when he was sixteen, was divorced with two children at 23, hunted, fished, worked as a garbage man before going back to school to be a firefighter, and I was proud of him, of everything that made him the amazing person that he was. Can you believe that I work with a woman at a publishing company who is embarrassed to admit that her husband is a firefighter? Embarrassed because of what it signifies, the level of income and education I’m assuming. It makes me sick to know people like that. I wish I could come to an answer for myself, either way, an understanding of why I feel the way I do about the Patagonia crowd.

Nothing else for me this week besides work, work, and ah yes, a bit more work. Last night was, thankfully, very slow. I like to make it home before midnight. My nights after work have become so routine they’re almost ritualistic. Let the dogs out. Peel off work clothes and throw them in the washing machine. Put on comfy PJ pants and sit in kitchen in PJ pants and bra. Light a cigarette. Put foot up on neighboring chair and balance book on knee. Read for the time it takes to smoke two cigarettes. Brush teeth. Wash face. Climb in bed with beagles and lay awake, too tired to sleep.

Repeat.