Meekend. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what the term means. A weekend that I’d reserved just for me. A weekend of ‘me time’, ‘alone time’, or whatever else you might want to call it. A weekend that has effectively gone up in smoke.
My parents, bless them, were going to go for some obscure family event in Pune, along with my brother. I was going to have the house to myself, so that I could do all the things I can’t do when they’re around. Sleep in the big, comfy double-bed. Have dinner with friends. Have lunch with friends. Make a smoked bacon sandwich (sigh). Catch up on my movies. Wear my itty-bitty, baby blue, sheep-print shorts around the house.
Nothing of the sort is happening.
My parents have abandoned all plans of going anywhere. I had to cancel my lunch plan with Koltrain, and go without the heavenly crab curry I’d been dreaming about, settling instead for Gujju thaali from Golden Star. Then Archer called and cancelled the ‘brinner’ (it’s his term for the meal between lunch and dinner – he thinks it’s a cute derivative of brunch).
And now I’m sitting here, typing this, while my 20-year-old brother switches between Animax cartoons and a documentary on supersonic torpedoes.
Dammit, why must Koltrain’s Christmas party be 24 whole hours away?
PS: Jerry, I know you’re going to read this and hunt me down to kick my ass, but this is really, really, really not quite how my meekend was supposed to go.