Posted in Meditative Monday

Monday, Monday; doo doo, doo doo-doo doo . . .

Monday again. You know you’re singing that song. Or maybe it’s Rainy Days and Mondays. Perhaps You Can Kiss Me on a Monday? Why are there so many songs about Monday? Where is my coffee? And why is it smiling?

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Every day of the week seems to have its own personality. Monday is grumpy. It’s the crabby receptionist at the front desk. If you can pay your dues and get past her, the rest is downhill.

Tuesday is awkward. It just doesn’t know how to be a real day at all. You forge forward, just happy to have gotten past Monday unscathed. No one ever wrote a song about Tuesday. That’s not entirely true, but can you name one without Googling it?

Wednesday is the middle child. You can’t quite see Friday, but you’re far enough in to have forgotten Monday. Wednesday shrugs off the worst of the week. Its happy-go lucky and you’re glad it shows up every week.

Thursday is serious. This is the day that you have to get things done, because Friday comes to town tomorrow, and you know you can’t get anything done with him around.

Friday is the party guy. He’s magnetic. Every day wants to be him. He shows up with a smile on his face and a six-pack under his arm. He lets you get away with things the other days of the week would never dream of.

Saturday is easy-going. Ask Saturday what it wants to do, and it’s going to say it doesn’t care; whatever you want to do. Free love and macrame. Work boots and blisters. Hammocks and wine. Errands and grilling out.

Sunday is unpredictable. You walk on eggshells around that one. She teeters between lazing around the house in pajamas and angrily preparing to meet Monday head on.

So today is Monday, and I’m gritting my teeth behind a fake smile, ready to meet her head on. I’m showered, dressed, fully present, and determined not to let her get me down. I’m going to greet her and however she responds is going to roll off me like water off a duck.

We can do this, people.

Peace . . .

 

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Author:

Trying to make sense of it all and . . . for the most part . . . doing it.

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