Thursday Doesn’t Give a Fuck About Me

It was 10pm on a Wednesday night and my body had just given out on me.

…60, 70, 80, 90…

There’s no way I’m finishing my 100th squat.

Truth be told, I just wanted to leave and finish the article I had due in just a few hours. Amongst the exhaustion, the anxiety was starting to set in.

I had no boss to answer to, no team waiting on me, and nobody waiting for me to publish.

All I had was a ticking clock, an idea burning a hole in my mind, and a fear of missing a deadline that meant so much to me.

Thursday was coming and I could barely move my body let alone think straight. I had the perfect excuse to call it a night.

And why not? I succumb to these mental fallacies all the time; give it my all in one area so there’s nothing left to give in another.

Forget the last 10 squats. Forget publishing in the morning. There’s time for it tomorrow when I’m ready to make it.

But as fast as Thursday comes around, it goes just as fast.

Truth be told, Thursday doesn’t give a fuck about me.

Thursday doesn’t need me like I need it. Am I so vain to play with time like it owes me something? Like it cares about my weakness?

There’s a certain type of strength that comes from the actualization that you have no control; that you’re a microscopic cog in a machine that functions seamlessly with and without your existence.

It makes the pain of the next 10 squats seem trivial.

It makes the tiredness from the lack of sleep an afterthought.

It makes the anxiety of missing a deadline go away.

…98, 99, 100…

It gives you the fire you need to push through when you have no strength left.

Thursday may not give a fuck about me, but I give a fuck about me. And despite the pain, Thursday did not get the best of me.

See you next week.