I Miss Friday Nights

Every Friday during swimming season, we would argue over who got to hold the fish and chips on the way home from the ice-cold pool. We sat on our towels, using the warm parcel to keep ourselves warm. The chips, however, were hot enough to burn our legs if they hadn’t been kept under warming lamps. As soon as we got home, we would assess the quality of the chips. It was never good enough. I would stand in the corner with my head pressed against the extraction fan. When they removed it Mum sent me a photo of the empty corner, and we both wondered where I would stand when I returned.

After eating the same thing every Friday, I would offer to take the plates into the kitchen. It was a ruse so I could eat the leftover chips. If I lingered in the kitchen, Mom would challenge me to whistle to confirm I wasn’t eating, a trial I never succeeded in.

Eating fish and chips on Friday is a leftover catholic tradition. There are conflicting stories about its inception, ranging from banal to scandalous. Catholics traditionally abstained from meat on Fridays during Lent. However, a persistent rumor suggests a collusion between the bishops who promoted this practice and the fishing industry. As former Catholics, our Friday night tradition was fish and chips. Dad, the only one raised outside the faith, was the only one who ate the fish—unless Gran and Grandad joined us. Gran was one of the few who followed the rule and ate a Fillet-of-Fish from McDonald’s if we ever broke tradition and had dinner at their house.

I miss the smallness of Friday nights. I am privileged to have an expansive group of friends; however, all I want to do is lie on my parents’ ugly green carpet and protect my fried chicken from the dog. Fridays were when I could unwind after the week, and I can never regain that feeling of contentment I experienced on those nights. Content that I had the entire weekend ahead, and I didn’t have bills to pay, and I didn’t need to worry about my aging body. Even if this were to happen, I’m too spoiled now. I would pine to go out with my friends. When I return home and eat the same meal, it’s different. The peace I once found in those Friday nights is out of reach. With all its chaos and uncertainty, adulthood makes those moments of simple contentment feel elusive.

I can still appreciate the slowness that I once lived in. I can only stomach it for a short time, I’m not ready to move there. Because everyone pumps the brakes at different times, I envy others who have settled into the traditions they will keep for years. Meanwhile, I’m out, trying to convince my colleagues to go to come with me to the strippers.

B. F. Skinner describes nostalgia as a stimulus that evokes a series of chemicals. No part of Friday night exists anymore. The stimuli have dried up or multiplied beyond comprehension. Part of Friday’s smallness was that everyone I knew was doing and watching the same thing. As I got older and would go out on the weekend, I always tried to avoid doing anything on a Friday night. I wanted to be at home watching Rove live with my parents.

When everyone was watching the same TV shows, we had something to talk about the next time we saw each other. It was a language that bound us. Now, even as we binge on content, we’re more disconnected, each of us in our bubble, picking and choosing what to watch, when, and with whom. When we settled in for the night, there was no burden of choice; there were three channels, and we always missed the start on whatever channel, rendering it unwatchable.

During the first Australian Idol season aired in New Zealand, the finale played during school camp. Because there were no TVs at the camp, one of the teachers had to make a phone call to announce who the winner was. When the teacher got off the phone and told everyone who it was, we jumped and cheered. Because there is so much content to consume, culture doesn’t have still moments like it used to.

One Sunday, just before midnight, I picked up a book to read a chapter because I should. I watched a movie because I should. When I finished the book, I would review it, as when people finish movies, they scramble to publish a review. Our content consumption has been commodified to the point that it’s immeasurably harder than it was on a Friday night to watch something mindlessly. We have to have a take.

When insurrectionists stormed the Capitol building on the 6th of January, most of the information I got was from Twitter. Most people I know weren’t glued to one of three news channels like they were when I was a kid, but scrolling either in despair or in awe at how fast the memes were created and how funny everyone else was. Unlike most, I was busy scolding myself for not being funny enough to tweet anything, but I was happy enough to enjoy the ride.

In Pretend It’s a City, Fran Lebowitz recalls that the only two times that she has seen New York quiet was after 9/11 and when the OJ Simpson verdict was announced. With endless content streams at my fingertips, I can never fully keep up. With endless streams of content at my fingertips, it’s like trying to drink from a firehose. Everyone else seems to be in on some secret conversation, while I’m stuck scrolling, hoping to find the latest thing that will connect me to them.

While I love sitting down on a Friday and having a fish and chip tea, I will never be able to recreate what I once enjoyed. Now, even something as simple as getting fish and chips feels complicated — I worry about calories, spending too much on takeaways, and whether I’m being ‘responsible’ enough. It’s a far cry from the Friday nights when I would eat without a second thought. While watching whatever I’m streaming, there’s no tension because I can pause it to use the bathroom or have my fiancé bring me cups of tea. As I get older, I realize that those simple Friday nights were as much about freedom as routine. The older I get, the harder it becomes to find a way to sit still and enjoy the moment without the weight of responsibilities pressing down on me. Most of all, my friends probably aren’t watching what I am, and on Monday, we will have the same conversation we always do.

“Have you seen this show?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“It’s really good.”

“Oh, I’ll add it to my list.”

And then I won’t add it to my list because it doesn’t exist.