This morning, I woke up – like I do every morning, at least until I don’t. I took a thirty minute shower, during which I only rinsed off. I took my happy pill and it got caught in my throat, so I scurried to the kitchen where I attempted to gulp down a scalding hot cup of coffee – trying to push the pill down – and ended up burning my tongue.
Needless to say, I didn’t need a calendar to tell me it was Monday, my body just knew. How does our bodies just no that it’s Monday, though? I mean, realistically “Monday” has not always been “Monday”. In fact, I’m nearly positive that at some point in time “a week” was not seven days long – or called a week for that matter. So why do Monday’s just suck. I kind of wonder if, at some point in time, some person realized that every seven days they just had a really crappy day, during which they felt like their bed spent hours calling their names and they just couldn’t manage to do anything right. Then they called it Monday.
Now that that tangent is over with, I’m back to my inexplicably bad morning. After damaging the majority of my taste buds, I preceded to fix my hair, think about (but did not actually do) covering the black circles under my eyes that – unlike most other days – were not the result of mascara pooling under my eyes while I slept, and then I grabbed my Fitbit charger because I suddenly have some weird desire to join in on all the walking challenges.
After I was completely satisfied with my half grungy and half professional appearance, I preceded to leave my apartment, with my lunch of leftover party appetizers in tow. Optimistic about finding a genuinely great parking spot, I drove from suburbia to the crowded city I work in, only to find there are actually people who like to get to work before 6:30 and jack all of the good spots (because who doesn’t like to work before the sun even starts to come up?). Understanding that I will have to leave even earlier to find decent parking, I was relatively satisfied with the decent spot I found. Putting my lunch and work tote – which is actually just a really big purse – into a fabric bag, I locked my car and started the chilly hike to work.
When I got to the office, the lights were all still off and there was no coffee made. I did what I do best in the morning and brewed a new pot. Then I walked back to my desk and sat down to think about life and all of my problems. Excited to plug my Fitbit in, I grabbed the charger from my purse, only to realize that the thing forgot that I couldn’t put my finger on was my actual Fitbit.
After a five minute pity party, during which I pouted and reflected on what I think may have happened yesterday, I went to pour myself a steaming mug of the drink of Gods. However, because I’m more an angel, I have to sweeten the harshness with a splash of creamer. Yet, when I opened the refrigerator door, it wasn’t my creamer that caught my eye. The fact that I had actually lost my physical lunch set me into a rolling panic. (I did eventually find it… on my desk.)
Now all the judgmental, perfect people out there probably take my melodramatic reflection on my morning to be the result of an irresponsible and unorganized twenty-something-year-old, but it isn’t. (Or maybe it is, but who really cares right now?) In fact, it’s the curse of Monday that led to the formation of a seven day week, or so I believe. I’d ask if Monday madness ever fades away, but I’m pretty sure it does not.