It’s Monday. Again.
I have this song running around my head that is most definitely a strange mix of two songs, but I can’t figure out which two. It goes: Monday, Monday – you’re so good to me.
Obviously that’s not a real song line – who in their right mind would write that and mean it?
There’s an ad on TV at the moment where this guy jumps out of bed on a Monday morning, shimmies to the shower and does a jig on the way to his car, all the while cheered on by his typical suburban family who have perfect teeth and aren’t even remotely obese, or normal – all because a family steak house has a special on a Monday night.
Thank goodness my life is better than that. At least I can honestly hate Mondays without being lame enough to get excited about a two for one special at my local grill house.
My Mondays usually start on Sunday night. That sinking feeling you get when you know a good thing is about to end. I invariably try to stretch the weekend out a bit by watching a movie or lingering outside too long. That just means I get to bed later than I should and waking up the next morning is, well, difficult.
There’s a moment between the alarm going off and the instinct to hit snooze when I weigh up the pros and cons of lying in a bit, only to sprint through the shower and getting dressed bits and run out the house with mismatched socks; or to get up and have a peaceful cup of freshly brewed coffee listening to the birds hail the new morning.
It’s always better if I get up when I’m supposed to. Running late isn’t good for my psyche.
Well, next Monday is a public holiday here. I have no idea why, and I seriously don’t care – to get to skip Monday morning is a joy that’s right up there with eating a snow flake in Africa (a rare occurrence).
I’m trying to live in and love every moment of life, but Mondays make that hard. I guess the trick is to hold on tight and know that this too shall pass. Well, I made it through this one. Tuesdays are innocuous, so tomorrow is a weekday safe zone. Phew!