Saturday is for the fucking boys, of course. It’s a day for drinking, hanging, partying, and all other things related to “bro-ing out.” It’s a day reserved for fun, friendship, and uplifting your boys to the fullest extent. Sunday, however, is for waking up alone and spending the rest of the day solemnly piecing together exactly where your life went so terribly wrong.
Some things are hard to piece together. Saturday was clear as a bell, though. The boys and I went wild. We got totally sloshed and sang karaoke, both at the bar and at the Uber driver on our way home. But when I abruptly woke up to vomit on Sunday, I was unable to pinpoint exactly which of my horrible life decisions started me down the path I now wander, totally alone.
Was it the time I turned down an invite for Saturday dinner at my boss’ house so I could turn up with my boys? Maybe then I could have turned this job into a fulfilling career with upward mobility. Or was it the many times I no-showed my kid’s little league games and, instead, spent the Saturday playing cornhole with the fellas. These are the questions Sunday was meant to ponder.
Unfortunately, as much as I try to think my way out of this mess, I doubt there is anything that can be done. I am filled with no answers. Only regret a puzzle to put back together. The broken puzzle pieces of my shattered life. Just waiting for next Saturday.