Got That Friday Feeling

Friday nights have always been sacred to me. Always. Ever since I was a little girl.

Friday nights are supposed to be enjoyed. Revered. Appreciated for what they are – the time of the week to wind down, relax, and do nothing if you please.

My fondness for Fridays began long before my working days. As a little girl I learned how special Fridays were. Of course, this was the early ‘70s, so half the population probably can’t relate when I reminisce about spending Friday nights watching The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family (yes, original episodes when they were aired on prime time). No that there was that much else to watch. Who had heard of cable TV then? Besides, I had such a crush on David Cassidy that there was no way I was missing that show about the musical family with the multi-colored bus.

But it was more than just TV. Friday night was “popcorn and Coke” night.

Every Friday – long before the concept of air poppers or microwave popcorn – my Mom would make popcorn the old fashioned way. In the pot. Just pour a little cooking oil in the pot, pour in the kernels, wait for the oil to get hot, and, wah-lah, there’s popcorn. I recall how when the corn would start popping Mom would hold the lid on the pot, hold the handle and start shaking the pot. I’m guessing that was to keep the popcorn from burning.

And with the popcorn came the Coke. Not in two-liter bottles. The only way you could get Coca-Cola back then was in the smaller glass bottles, sans the screw-off lid. (Bottle openers were a must.) Coke with our popcorn was a big deal on Friday nights. It was the only time of the week that we were allowed to have soft drinks. To think that kids today take for granted such a treat as having a soft drink!

As a teenager Friday nights were a time for friends and fellowship. More than one slumber party took place in my basement on any given Friday night. The overnight parties started out as birthday surprise parties, then just regular birthday parties. Then just for fun. My basement was party central, in a clean-cut sort of way (pop and snacks only), and I remember staying up until all hours of the night, chatting and bonding with my friends about the “important” things in life (usually the talk centered around guys, and which ones we liked at the time).

Needless to say, my fetish for Fridays has continued into my adulthood. I really try not to do anything on Friday night, though I often have to cook dinner. On those occasions, at least I make sure it’s something I like – proper Friday night fare. In my childhood the Friday night meal was shrimp and French fries. Yes! Or Tacos, yes. Fish sandwiches, yes. Meatloaf, no. Meatloaf is a Sunday or Monday meal. As are pork chops. I have different foods labeled in my head as to what day of the week they should be served. (Fried chicken is always a Wednesday night meal; steak is always a Saturday night meal.)

It’s now Saturday, and as I sit here drinking my Diet Coke, I know I should start tackling some of the work I brought home with me this weekend. After all, Saturday isn’t Friday night. Chalk this blog up to procrastination, I guess, and a wish that it was still Friday. But alas, Friday night will come again (though I’m reasonably sure I’ll have to work late next Friday night, which is almost sacrilegious in my book.)

Last night, though, as the boys and I cleaned the kitchen from our Friday night fish sandwich dinner, my Friday Fever peaked to the point where I developed a hankering for popcorn. But there was no microwave popcorn to speak of in the house. Yet low and behold, I did have a package of popcorn kernels. Guess who made popcorn the old fashioned way? In the pot, finishing it off with lots of real butter for ultimate taste. The boys didn’t know popcorn could be made in such a way. Yet it turned out to be a hit with them. And my husband ate quite a bit of it too.

The experience sufficed for taking me down memory lane for just a few minutes at least. And it reminded me just how precious those Fridays have always been to me.

Not that every day isn’t a gift. But my fondness for Fridays will probably always remain steadfast. Friday is for family. Friday is for friends. No matter how bad the rest of the week, there’s always Friday night.

The Friday Feeling. It’s a good feeling. If only I could take it, bottle it up and sell it on the open market.  I expect that would make me a wealthy woman.

For the moment, though, I guess I’ll just stay poor. Poor, but rich in so many ways – with my health, my husband and my children.

And a healthy supply of weekly Fridays – for life.

Screw Diets

Did I ever mention that I hate diets? Normally I’m a proponent of portion control, because with restrictive diets all I ever think about is what I can’t have instead of what I can.

But right now I’m sort of in a state of desperation, as somehow over the last year and a half I’ve ballooned to the point to where I’m starting to grow out of my clothes. I need an emergency intervention – a quick change to get me going back in the right direction (that would be down).

So I caved to my own philosophy of just eating in moderation (which I, for the most part, think I do anyway – but because of my mostly sedentary lifestyle and lack of exercise I’m guessing my metabolism is in the toilet). I figured this called for extreme measures. Hence, I resorted to the “meal replacement” plan. Specifically, I chose the Atkins protein shakes – one in the morning for breakfast, one in the afternoon for lunch, a “sensible” dinner low on carbs, and an Atkins protein bar for a bedtime snack. The plan can be excruciating at times, but at least it’s simple.

Early results were promising. Four pounds in the first three days. Yay! So I set a goal for myself – that in the next six days I would lose only two more pounds to reach my initial goal. Did I follow the meal replacement plan to the tee? Well, no. Last weekend I pretty much bypassed it and consumed real food, but ate very little. And two days ago my hunger did give in. I succumbed to the temptation of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. But otherwise, I was good.

And today was the magic day. The day I was supposed to get on the scale and feel the satisfaction of reaching my goal – six pounds total lost. Except that didn’t happen. I not only didn’t lose those additional two pounds, I actually gained a pound back, making for a net total of three. That’s only half my goal. Bummer.

Thing is, I was so certain that I had lost those two additional pounds. Your mind plays tricks on you. Sort of a psychosomatic response to all of your hard-fought efforts. (“Are my clothes feeling a little looser? Why, yes, I think they are!”)

So today I rebel. I ate real food for breakfast – just a modest bowl of Special K, but one I would have deemed a cardinal sin of late. A leftover piece of fried chicken for lunch. And now I’m nursing a tasty glass of white wine – chock full of carbs. Tonight I eat pizza.

And what will tomorrow bring? Right now my attitude is “screw diets.” But I really am trying not to get discouraged. And I really can’t afford an entirely new wardrobe. So I guess I’ll try to gather my thoughts and try to figure out what I need to do to get this done.

As I said, my metabolism is probably shot because I know I don’t exercise enough (OK, hardly at all). So maybe I need to incorporate some additional activity into my plan. So what’s the answer here? Will a daily walk around the neighborhood do the job? Or maybe I need to join a gym? Hmmm. Personal trainer, maybe? Whoops, we’re getting into some big bucks there.

Guess I’ll take my measly three-pound loss and go from there. I do have goals – immediate, short-term and long-term. I’m so disappointed I didn’t hit my immediate goals. But don’t want to give up. That means I’ll just get fatter.

Yes, I think I’ll continue on this journey and see what another day brings. But tonight time stands still. Tonight I’ll enjoy just one more glass of wine and some pizza to boot. Just a small reward for trying so hard the past 10 days. (Just wondering how many of those three pounds I’ll put back on tonight!)

And then tomorrow I move forward. Another day, a new beginning.