Face. The Weekend. Nothing

The week is petering out, heralding the weekend in its wake. I’m listening to retro pop songs in the background. It’s an enchanting day outside as I write this, the sun is up – like every other day this week – but it’s not harsh, just delightful. Friday is the youngest sister that hogs all the time in the world glamming up and dazzles us blind with her sheer beauty. There’s something about Fridays that conveys exuberance, it has that ripple effect on folk. Suffice to say, I’m zealous, a lingering grin shudders the corners of my kisser. My gut tingles with a coalescence of angst and exhilaration, it’s not like I’m expectant – of anything – definitely not pregnancy – not even Friday hugs. I’m not of the conviction of manifesting or foresight but really there’s something hurtling my way. Something is coming (that’s what she said).

Exit over-enthusiasm, enter skin rash.

My face has been relatively spotless all my life. Never had an incursion of the adolescence wrought pimples. I’ve had that stroke of luck, genes maybe. But. Of late there are these unnerving and malicious rashes that have forayed my forehead and subtly peppered my cheeks. They’re not overtly perceivable but you’d see them if you came close (that’s what she said). The wonted is; they usually blow over at the drop of a hat but this ones are taking their time, like a bride shuffling between the pews to the altar, the helm of their massive dress sweeping behind them. I need to get into the weekend in good shape, may something expedite the decimation of the buggers on my face. Is it because I talked lousy over fond lovers on valentines? I won’t do it again good heavens, let it slide. Smooth my record for me a bit, eh?

I have been laboriously waiting for the weekend to come around akin to a farmer in the desolate arid. I’ve listened to the days trudge by, minutes arduously morph into hours and days. I have seen news rise and ebb. Scandals have surfaced and gone under. Grapevine has come hot and cooled off. Bob Marley’s Instagram is effing animated. Rihanna has dropped a billion dollar lingerie line in lieu of an album. My face has gone from a 9 he-he to a 4 then to a tepid 6. Okay, too much with the vanity.

Now the weekend’s here and I can finally get some rest. I haven’t slept earlier and arose later than 1 and 7 pm this week. I’ve taken assignments at home like those sleuths in movies. I’ve held court with the night into the youthful hours of the morning shrouded in silence and pensiveness. Its quietude only agitated by a nocturnal inebriated bloke. I’ve listened to the nights throb wispily to the morning. I deserve a break.

I have been tolerating the idea of going swimming for about a month now. I haven’t swam ( in a swimming pool of course) in over a year. I need to delve and refine my now – a tad rusty swimming chops and endurance. Maybe I will; Kenyan euphemism to say I probably will not. I’m dubious public pools are open now, owing to the pandemic situation and all. Health guidelines and all have put constraints on revelers.

For now, as the day cedes away and my exit from this laptop looms, I intend to binge watch The Office. Wait, you guys don’t watch The Office, you should. Anyhow, see you later, I’ll whip up some palpable evening meal and wait for Saturday to pop its face.

Exit whines. Enter Saturday.

Image Source: Pinterest

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