So today is my one day off this week.
Well, Monday is typically my one day off every week.
Today, however, I decided I wasn't going to take it for granted. I woke up in a decent enough mood and was being really sweet to Monday. "How about you play some video games?" "You want Chinese takeout and a foot massage later, baby?" You know... giving Monday the full 'Watson' treatment for a good time... but to no avail. Monday shat on me yet again.
You see... Monday is an imposter.
For the rest of the world, Monday is negative. It's the beginning of a long work week, the start to the unbearable week of school. There are cliches that make 'Monday' and 'depression' synonymous. While Friday gets accolades and even a chain of mediocre restaurants.
This is becoming a problem for my reality.
I want to love my Monday. I want to revel in its sloth. When I open the door at 3pm in my pajamas with a glass of wine in hand and remote control in the other and proclaim, "Hey, it's Monday!", I want my neighbors to understand. (Rather than whisper "intervention" under their breath.)
But because the majority of humans consider Monday to be 'all business', I feel like I'm forced to participate in the same vein. I take the call from the bank. I agree to meet my landlady. I get out of my fracking pajamas before 9am and run errands. I catch up on laundry and dishes and menial housework. I wait until after 5pm to pour my glass of wine.
Monday has fooled me into thinking I have a day off, but manipulates me into working just the same.
I have a plan, however. I'm three weeks away from going to Little Rock for 'Next to Normal'. And I vow - with all that is in me - that on at least ONE of those Mondays, I'm going to stay holed up in my apartment in my pajamas with a bottle of wine and my Netflix. I will stand proudly in my antisocial den of sloth and reclaim my Monday. I will reignite our love affair and prove to her that the masses are wrong about Friday and that she - Monday - is and always will be the best day of the week.
Oh yes, Monday. I haven't given up on you yet, you wily succubus. I will strip away your business disguise and expose you for the beauty that you truly are.
One of these weeks...
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When I was a teenager, (quite a few years ago) my mother and my grandfather would always watch 'Sixty Minutes'. When I would hear the 'sixty minutes' clock, I would get this sinking feeling that Monday would be arriving in a few hours. I'm not sure if it was the pure anxiety of living through high school, or if everyone experienced it. I suppose the fear would dictate the intensity of the feelings. I won't watch Sixty Minutes to this day because of that damn clock...Sunday night is the saddest and loneliest night of the week, this man's opinion. Enjoyed your post.
ReplyDeleteYup! I remember that anxious little ticking clock well. It marked my 'sixty minute' countdown to being asleep before the snooze button would me mandatory.
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