Saturday's Child

There's this nursery rhyme that used to hang in my bathroom when I lived in Florida. I've memorized it over thousands of teeth brushings and toilet runs and shower frenzies.

Monday's child is fair of face

Tuesday's child is full of grace

Wednesday's child is full of woe

Thursday's child has far to go

Friday's child is loving and giving

Saturday's child must work hard for a living

But the child that's born on the sabbath day,

Is fair and wise and good and gay.

The only part that really stuck out to me, of course, is that being a Saturday's child sucks. I was born on a Saturday and all I get out of this poem is that I must work hard for a living? If I would have popped out of the womb a day earlier, my character would have been ideal and I wouldn't have had to worry about my future. But since I was born mid-afternoon on a Saturday, that line has haunted me for years.

Post-graduation. It's been exactly one week since I left Erie and unloaded my belongings in my room at home. It's been a week since I've seen any friends. It's been one long week since I've written anything worthwhile. Right now, one week ago, I was standing in a parking garage, drowning in navy, running my fingers anxiously through a white tassel.

I'm going to get a planner today so I can map out my life. I need a schedule. I need to be productive. I need to, apparently, work hard for my living.

But I'm not particularly ready to fulfill my nursery rhyme prophecy yet. Before I start digging toes-first into the working world, I still need to have my Grandiose Shebang, my All-In-Aeriale's Hardcore Adventure, my This-Is-It-And-Now-I'm-Ready-To....Whatever. Do Whatever. Be Whatever. As a college graduate, as holder of a BFA, I would like to treat myself to a trip. My feet are itching. My body is restless. My bones are ready to go. go. go. go. go.

Right now, I am no Saturday's child. I'm a Thursday's child. And as a Thursday's child, there is no time to waste.