Mondays don’t exist. Maybe it’s just me, but whenever I go to work on a Monday, I end up at home and have no real recollection of what happened all day. This is especially true of anything that happens before lunchtime.
I find myself on the run most Monday mornings. No matter what time I leave my apartment, I always arrive just in time to clock in and immediately get to work, picking up wherever I left off on Friday. It takes me a while to truly comprehend what on Earth I was actually doing Friday afternoon and make any inroads on it. If it’s a good Monday, I finished what had to be done Friday and was working ahead for Monday. If it’s a bad Monday, I’m finishing Fridays work. Either way, be the time I get any kind of groove going and begin to make progress, it’s magically noon–time for lunch. I’m never able to establish a rhythm on Mondays. I just hold on for the ride.
Never does a day move as fast as it does on Mondays. I pray for Friday’s to move half as fast as Mondays. Mondays are, as the song says, manic. Even when I get home there’s a lot to do. I spend Monday attending to things most people do on Saturday Mornings: washing clothes, putting away dishes, tidying up, cooking, freelance work.
Most days Sometimes I say screw it and read a harlequin or other frivolous book, or watch episodes of TV shows on Netflix watch instantly. If I do this, the madness transfers to Tuesday.
I have a saying that I’m fond of: Every week has a Monday. This is why I don’t bother to take Mondays off. Tuesdays just become the new Monday, and so on and so forth. There’s no escaping Mondays.