GROUNDHOG NIGHT

From the annals of getting old and stupid.

So after enjoying a pizza with my wife - a pizza picked up on my way home from work Friday evening - I go upstairs to change out of my suit.  And maybe I had a glass or two of cabernet along with the extra sauce and cheese.  I get partially undressed, then feel the urge to lay down for a short while.   Under the sheets.  Very pleasant.  I fall in a deep sleep.  I awake refreshed.  Light streams in under the window shade.  I glance at the clock radio: 8:45...   8:45!  My heart catches in my throat.  It's eight forty 'effing five in the morning!  Work started fifteen minutes ago!  I run out of the room and down the stairs dressed in the  button down shirt and underwear I'd fallen asleep in.  The wife is sitting in her chair, laptop on her, well, lap, doing whatever one does on Facebook.  "What day is it?" I shout.
"Friday," she says, looking more than a bit confused.
Jesus H. Christ, it's Friday morning and I'm late for work.  I am in a complete panic.  I run back upstairs, throw off my clothes and start up the shower.  But something isn't quite right.  I've done this before.  Done it recently.  Damn...  I run back downstairs, totally confused and - worse - totally naked (not a pretty sight when you're in your early 60's).  I accost the wife again.  "Are you sure?  Sure it's Friday"  It isn't Saturday, is it?"
The woman is looking for something to protect herself with.  "No, dear.  It's Friday."  And then the magic word.  "Night."
"Night?"
"Yes.  Night.  What did you think?"
I glance out the window (at an oblique angle, so there's nobody can stare in and see the naked, raving lunatic).  Yup, it isn't morning light, it's twilight,  Dusk.  It is Friday evening, a quarter to nine.  An old Humphrey Bogart movie plays on TCM.  The pizza box is on the counter where I left it, along with the bottle of wine.  I don't normally drink wine first thing in the morning.  I do drink wine at night.  But not anymore tonight, I decide.  Not anymore.  I trudge back upstairs to find some clothes.  Humphrey Bogart growls something at his moll, but I can't make out the words over my wife's raucous laughter.  This will not be a good weekend..