I’m not good at this whole updating thing, am I.

It’s Friday. Friday. Friday. Friday. When I was little my brother had this Snoopy poster that had Charlie’s pup going through all the days of the week. The only line I remember is Woe is me, it’s Wednesday. When I was little I would read the poster out loud, acting it out. I thought Woe was a name. So there I’d be, standing on his red and blue quilt, making wide Shakespearean arm gestures saying, ‘Woe. . . is me.’ (Use your imagination here people.) But the end of the poster had Snoopy doing his happy beagle dance saying T.G.I.F.!

I wasn’t very far along in school, kindergarten or first grade maybe, and couldn’t imagine why anyone would get so excited about Friday. Sure, the next day meant the Snorks and Smurfs, and giant pancakes, but really, what was so great about it?

We’re so deluded in our childhood.

I ache for the weekends. For the feeling you get driving out of the parking lot on Friday evening, sunroof open, radio blaring. For that early Saturday morning first awake breath, when you breathe deep and slowly smile realizing you don’t have to crawl out of your amazing bed. For the wide-open day, just waiting to be filled with whatever you want to do. Feel like cleaning? Go for it. Want to take the dog to the park? You can do that too. Just want to sit on your cushy couch and watch The Real World? Your wish is my command, the weekend giggle whispers in your ear.

Weekends are the days I appreciate adulthood and the ultimate freedom that comes with being young and independent. I can go shopping and don’t have to justify my purchases to my mother, or worry about her reviewing my credit card statement. I can sleep until 11 a.m. without "Time to hop out of bed! It’s a beautiful day" seeping through my bedroom door. I can get divaed up and go to dinner at 10 p.m. with friends, order a bottle of wine and talk until we shut the place down.

But it’s not that dizzying I-can-do-whatever-I-fucking-want realization you get those first tentative weeks of college. The insane drive of an eighteen-year-old – ordering pizza at one a.m., staying up all night just because, getting drunk in your dorm room for no reason other than to get wasted. Kissing 17 boys in one night. (Let’s get sidetracked for a moment, shall we? Mardi Gras 1995 – 14 freshman girls have a Kiss Cute Boys contest. I started it, making a boy kiss me in order to jump on the trampoline [we all tramped out that weekend. Ha. Ha.] and so the contest begins. Suddenly people were getting halves [how the hell you get half a kiss is beyond me] and a few of us [not me] are sneaking off and boogying down, if you know what I’m talking ‘bout, and I think you do. But I still won, because it was Kiss Cute Boys, not do the nasty in your friend’s parents’ bathroom.) Anyway.

This freedom is quieter. It’s a soft understanding that your life is finally your own. And you can do whatever you fucking want.