Like most weekends, this one got away from me early.
Getting up on a weekend is kind of like climbing up onto a docile-looking little horse … the kind of horse that has lived a long and fruitful life standing still while kids are placed upon its back for photos.
One swings up into the saddle with sang-froid and aplomb. We pat the horse condescendingly on the shoulder and say something amusing, like, “Easy there, big fellah.”
It is then that we notice the name on the stall is “Satan’s Revenge”. There is a smaller sign that says, “Owners not responsible for any injuries to patrons.”
Suddenly the horse if off like a shot, and you are holding on for dear life.
Saturday morning passes by like a blur. Saturday afternoon is missed entirely because your eyes are closed because of the strong wind in them. Saturday evening? No memories of it at all.
Sunday morning seems leisurely enough, and you are hopeful that your weekend horse is a bit winded and will slow down some.
But no such luck. By Sunday afternoon, the landscape looks like a Renoir painting … more of a vague impression than anything discernible.
And then, Sunday evening, the horse suddenly stops, and bucks wildly … and throws you … heels over head …
And you land squarely on your bum on Monday morning.
And you are saddened to note that Monday morning is going by as slow as molasses at the North Pole in winter.
But we just keep getting back up on that horse, hopeful that the next one will be a little slower.