For purposes of this post, we will assume a week extends from Tuesday to Tuesday.
For purposes of this post, we will also assume a week progresses from most recent to the murky time period I often anecdotally refer to as "the other day."
And of course, we will assume that you are disappointed rather than pleased that I have not posted all week.
Starting from these (admittedly dubious) assumptions, I wish to say to you: never fear. Using my superpower of inventive memory, I now present to you a review of the Missing Week:
Today: I am trying to make a very important point in class when I am reminded by something I say of a whole genre of Mathematician/Physicist/Engineer jokes which I was often told as a child. This in turn, reminds me that because my father would count asymptotically when I was approaching trouble, I never learned to hate math like other children and have been a misfit since.
Yesterday: I am in bondage in Egypt--until some grape juice is spilled on a plate, at which point I am at a table eating chapatis with haroset and horseradish.
Yesterday's Yesterday: It is Sunday. My daughter is so restless at church that I sort of wish we were Buddhist so that I could go to church alone in a monastery and not come out for several months instead. After church, I tell my wife I was a much more patient father before I had a child.
The Day Before Yesterday's Yesterday: We pass numerous cows on our way to the Hindu temple in Spanish Fork, UT, site of the largest Holi celebration in North America. When we get there, the place has been overrun by college students who believe that being covered in colored powder automatically makes you a temporary hippy. One holds up a sign that says "PEACE DAMNIT." I am not sure whether he knows that our country is currently involved in two wars, and that neither of them is in Vietnam.
Several Days Ago: My daughter and I drive for more than an hour in search of an old friend's wedding reception while my wife takes a breather at the local Buddhist monastery. We have trouble getting to the reception because half the roads Google maps suggested are under construction or closed. We finally reach what appears to be the correct address. There is a large abandoned barn which creeps my daughter out. Either we have the wrong address, or this is a terrible metaphor for marriage.
The Other Day: There is an eighteen-and-a-half minute gap in my otherwise perfect recollection of this day. I blame the ghost of Richard Nixon.
The Other Other Day: There is an eighteen-and-a-half hour gap in my otherwise perfect recollection of this day. For the other five-and-a-half hours, I am asleep. Fortunately, I have no strange dreams.
A Week Ago: I write a post called "The Missing Week" and schedule it for automatic publication in one week, thus relieving myself of any responsibility to update my blog between now and then.
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