Friday

I glance quickly at my phone. Hitting the little button at the top with my right index finger to make it come alive, the backlighting of the screen reveals that it is three in the afternoon. Friday seems to have flown by. Ten in the morning found me predictably in the gym, and somehow stumbling through my day with the help of the mass transit system of Boston, I find myself in my favorite Irish Pub. My notebook sits open upon the bar, a blank page glaring at me, daring me to organize my thoughts. A smattering of loose papers swirl around me, all covered in scribbles, my normal obsessive compulsion not applicable to random idiosyncratic annotations. Every corner of the pages covered like someone obsessed with body art, brief statements hurriedly jotted down sideways, diagonally, and upside down. Slowly spinning my glass of Sam Adams lager, I take note of the laser etching on the bottom and ponder for an instant if it actually does help to release more of the flavor. As the minute bubbles ascend to the surface, now markedly at the halfway point, I reflect upon the day.

Perhaps not the most productive of Fridays, but it’s been enjoyable none-the-less. What the hell does “Productive” mean anyway? For that matter, what do half of the words we use on a regular basis really mean? They are all relative to a context and a perception; everything finds itself embedded in the drywall of social circumstance. Maybe to some, a day of work is defined by the amount of actual labor put into it . . . and I’ve been there, where you’re feeling of accomplishment stems from the soreness of muscles, the exhaustion of the brain, and the ache of your back, but anecdotal evidence is not a sound measurement. Productivity has to do with the completion of a task, and the value of that task varies.

The steady progression towards some state of mental peace, a moment of clarity; is the compilation of flashes of insight combined with a calm of self-content not a task that satisfies the parameters of productivity? I digress. Maybe discussing performance enhancement and general observations of life and this world over fish tacos and a Corona in Harvard Square is unprofessional, but I feel it has the same influence as sitting at an awkward table in a chilly training room listening to an unsatisfied stomach subtly complain. Most of the best ideas and strategic plans ever devised were berthed over a beer and good food. We get so hung up on context, but the truth is that all of these contrived definitions we cling to so fervently only exist in that oddly shaped mash-up of chemicals and eerily textured tissue we call the brain. . . and we can always change our minds. I spend much of my time trying to determine which messages to listen to, what is a sensible response and what is not. I etch a quick x through the box on the calendar representing Friday with a dry-erase marker. No telling how many more I will have the pleasure of experiencing, but a day spent on such undertakings is not a day lost, simply a day lived . . . what does that life mean? Well, that’s a topic for another day.