Cinq à Septs: You have one, what is it?

In France "cinq à sept" (five to seven for les uninformed) refers to the time spent between a man and his mistress before going home.

The OG definition of an extracurricular, possibly.

It seems to me that cinq à septs are pretty solidly representative of one’s life stage.

What used to be bedtime as babies gradually turned into dinner time, then aforementioned extracurriculars and others.

More North American—where bien sûr the concept of cinq à septs is less… robust—something along the lines of commute, commute, commute, happy hour, work out hour, actually (you better keep effing doing) work hour, is probably more familiar.

I’m in my trois à quatre rn (three to four), and, well, it’s never been a good one for me.

Should have been having a standing nap since I was 3.

Think of the mental health (and reparative cell) benefits.

No wonder I went to work in tech.

Where is my pod.

My current cinq à sept is filled with exhaust fumes from the workday, a preamble with monsieur, and either preparing of scavenging for some meaningful nutrition for the day (sorry breakfast).

I dream of more interesting or glamorous cinq à septs that are at my fingertips. As the light outside turns off later and later, the flavor du jour is finishing work on a patio or posted up at a bar somewhere. I daydream this and do nothing about it.

Nonetheless, the desire to truly living a 5-8 (yes, I know the saying is 9am-5pm, 5pm-9pm… but bed, lol) I’d be proud of takes up real estate in my brain.

As a behavioral scientist, I know I could do something about this. I know what to do about this. But I don’t.

When 5pm hits, I say it’s the logistics: what to bring and what to leave? How long to stay? Will I eat? What about the groceries?

Why bother, I say to myself as I slip down my monastic slide.

As I write this, I realize that everything points to why not bother?

I appear to say to others with reasonable frequency look alive out there. Well, lol.

See you at 5.