Indecision on the Menu

This happens every Friday.
On the final day of the work week, the general mood is known to rise a few notches, in anticipation of the weekend. (And now that I no longer have classes on said weekend, I shall join in this weekly lightening of spirits.) One can tell that the air is a little fresher by such telltale signs.

1. Everyone dresses casually, kicking it in jeans and the like.
2. People are less inclined to stay at their desks past quitting time.
3. People are also less inclined to arrive at their desks at their normal arrival time.
4. The front desk distributes puppies and ice cream and DVDs to all employees who say “good morning.”

I made one of them up. But I can’t remember which.

One final way to figure out if you’re at work on a Friday (other than looking at your calendar) is to observe mealtime behavior. Most people like to split their day in two by partaking in the ancient workplace tradition of “Lunch.” Whether you work through it or disappear from the office for hours on end, all are entitled to that mid-day meal. But on Fridays, if were only that easy.

People are a little looser on their dining options on Fridays. The purse strings come undone a bit more, and the idea of people straying from the daily eating routine becomes apparent. No longer are the masses compelled to stick to their brown bags or their mundane snack from the lobby convenience store. Nay! No later than 10 am on Friday morning is the crucial question du jour first uttered in offices everywhere:

“What’s for lunch?”

This is the most painful part of Fridays.

When it comes to whether we should order out for lunch, everybody instantly agrees. This is an ideal opportunity to break the mold, and you’ve got the backing of all your co-workers. No argument will be had. However, when it comes to just where to go or who to order from does this process become more painful than David Arquette doing Shakespeare.

One by one, the same old group of options will get proposed. No one really will show any affection or leaning towards any one selection, for fear of being judged by some imaginary Lunch Brigade. Nor will people take the effort to overrule suggestions, for the absolute fear of offending the one choice some other mute co-worker asking for divine intervention on its behalf.

This will go on for forty minutes.

I wish I could do something about it, like put my foot down and proclaim to the people, “Viva Chipotle!” or something but I’m rendered just as helpful as the rest. One would think that I could rise above such grueling discussion, but that’s part of it being Friday. If this spirited debate were to take place on a Monday – I would shut down people and tell them it’s Panera time; on Friday I settle for banging my head repeatedly on my desk. I would even argue politics, religion, and how underrated the flick Varsity Blues is on a Monday. But Friday – I can’t find the simple words “White Castle.”

And as all the options are lobbed in the air and struck down like a Any Roddick serve, we’ll find ourselves in a very familiar place – Square 1. And once we reach that point, it signals the death march down to the café, just like Thursday. And Wednesday. And Tuesday. And Monday.

This happens every Friday.