Washed

This afternoon I read an article in the latest issue of GQ titled "In Praise of Being Washed" and, as I ready myself for a Friday night spent seated on the sofa with my partner, our pups and whatever looks good on Netflix, my lower back sore from airplane travel, my near-term social schedule hampered by a self-imposed month of no alcohol, I'm finding it a wee bit too relatable.

On the drive to the restaurant, as the sun sets and the muscle pain sets in, I think about all the dumb Fridays in my life. High school: drugs. College: alcohol. Twenties: Let's not talk about what any of us did in our 20s. And now the dumb Fridays of my present arise in front of my windshield—all my flaws, my corny pastimes, the great things I've left undone and will never do. I listen to my golf clubs rattle gently in the trunk and am consumed with thoughts about how some other, younger version of myself would be so terribly disappointed at what I've become. But what I mostly think is: Damn, I wish I'd known about this earlier.