Just the sound of it gives me goose bumps and a jolt of euphoria. What is it about Fridays that makes every working American jump for joy? Is it because it’s the last day of the workweek or because there’s two days of relaxation before Monday begins?

I remember as a youngster in grade school, I would stare at the enormous wall clock right above my teacher’s head, counting down the minutes to the end of the school day.  I didn’t know how to tell analog time that well, but for some reason, observing the antsiness of my classmates and noticing the anticipation to grab our book bags and belongings from our cubbyholes, signaled the weekend was near.

What I remember most about Fridays was hearing the final bell of the day ring and my peers and I rushing toward the buses to see who would get to the front of the bus near a window seat first. My bus driver, “Mr. Mason” was a stoic old man, his white hair sparse and his expression emotionless as he called everyone, even girls, “boy.” I sometimes chuckle at how he would intensely stare through the rearview mirror at the rowdy passengers in the back of the bus causing raucous. Minutes later, we’d hear the bus stop as if it were a pressure cooker that let out its steam and Mr. Mason would get up and walk towards the commotion.

“Sit down Booooooy,” he’d say, as he pointed his bony finger at the culprits. Chuckles and loud, mocking laughter would erupt afterward. After his incessant reprimands, Mr. Mason would go back to his seat, drive some, and then the vicious cycle would start all over again. Happening every Friday, it’s a wonder I’m still sane as an adult.

As a youth, I longed for Fridays: the excitement, the time away from class work and the time to watch my favorite programs before bedtime. And now, as an adult, I still do. Thank God for Fridays.