Fridays

It's Friday. That means I'm wearing my outfit of gray sweat pants and a gray sweat shirt. And the two grays don't quite match.

(Which do you prefer, gray or grey?)

Fridays make me think of tradition.

Back in elementary school, Friday meant watching Urkel and whatever crap followed him.

In high school, Friday meant eating pizza and watching cartoons in my friend's basement during lunch hour. It did not mean going to football games at night (though I kind of wish I would've played football in high school) nor did it mean going to school dances. Instead the group of guys would get together and play Risk. Then, in the wee hours of the night, we would go to city hall and play our own football game. Then, in the wee wee hours of the night, we would dress in black and shoot each other with plastic guns.

In my freshman year of college, every Friday my friends and I would finish our last class of the day (which we had together) and walk back to the dorm. One of my friends would then crank up his sound system to full volume and play a song where some guy screamed "It's time to party! Let's party!" the whole time. And we would dance around like idiots.

Good days.

But it's Friday once again, and besides wearing my Friday outfit, I can't think of any traditions I'm currently upholding.

And my friends are wondering aloud if I should continue wearing this outfit every Friday. It's too warm in the summer and not warm enough in the winter, and it doesn't match, and they think it's starting to smell.

On the one hand, it does get pretty warm in the spring when I'm walking to class, and maybe I can see those little green stink lines rising from the fabric.

But on the other hand, I've worn this outfit every Friday since I came to school. Can I turn my back on pizza, on Risk, on Urkel, on Friday?

But on the other hand . . . . No. There is no other hand.

Some things I will not--I cannot allow.