Monday Again?

Here it is — it’s Monday again.

The typical drag-your-derriere out of bed, increase your coffee intake, turn-the-sound-down-on-the-news kinda morning.

Now you would think that, since being retired for a year, I’d be over that kind of gut-kick reaction to just another day of the week.

I’m not.

Maybe my first reaction is a form of habit. After all, I worked for fifty years, all on the day shift, always having to get up at 6 a.m. five days a week. I don’t think you can just “turn off” that kind of Pavlov’s dog reaction.

Maybe it’s because there’s always something that needs to be done. No matter your country, state, town, marital status, or pant’s size, there’s always something you need to do on a Monday morning. Laundry. Call the plumber. Send your kids off to school. Go to a doctor’s appointment.

There’s always something waiting for you Monday Morning.

I do admit that days here tend to blur into one another. I find myself asking myself (or others) what day it is. Isn’t today Tuesday? Don’t we have to drop something off at the post office today? Did we talk to the kids about Saturday yesterday? Or three days ago?

I think with being home every day with the fear of Covid 19 striking you or those you love tends to blur your thoughts and memories after a while. I never thought I was going to be a jet setter once I retired, but there were things I was going to finally be able to do.

UhHuh. Not yet. No way. Sit down.

I think we all take a major sigh Monday mornings because it gives us a sense of routine. Of beginning again. Even if we don’t do the things we used to do, it gets us in the mind set that there are daily responsibilities we need to take care of every day.

Acknowledging Monday makes retirees blend in better with those who still have to work five days a week. Gets us into a  fixed rhythm like doing homework five days a week. Gives us a sense of routine. Of setting goals and finishing them all within a specific time frame.

For most of us, weekends are still the time we set aside to do things we don’t normally do during the “work” week. Vacation. Visit family. Mow the lawn. Change the oil in the car. Stay up late. Go to the Farmer’s Market.

We need to keep our special time special. We can’t allow one day to melt into the next into the next. It gets too easy to let go and have life become one melted puddle day after day, week after week. No differentiation to remind us that we are always growing, always learning, and always making order out of chaos every single day.

Today is Monday. I’ve already had a slice of cheesecake for breakfast, thrown in a load of laundry, brushed the cat, and made a to-do list for the week. I may not be punching a time clock like days of old, but I feel that I still fit in the rhythm of the day and of the week. That I fit in with the buzzing world around me. At least for four more days.

Can’t wait till Saturday!

A Warm Monday

It is a wonderfully warm-to-hot Monday  here in the Midwest. The butterflies, although fewer in number this year, still come and check out the flowers on my deck, and at night the faerie fireflies tantalize me with hints of their world just beyond my sight.

My sinuses have been rearing their nasty heads lately — I don’t know if it is allergies or sinusitis or just plain old lady sinuses.  But they do make concentrating for any serious amount of time laborious.

It’s the kind of day to sneak in visits to the shaded part of the porch just to enjoy the breeze that tickles your hair and tinkles the windchimes.

If I were a sketcher it might be a perfect time to sketch the black and white butterfly who likes to alight on the white plastic rocker, or the indigo bunting who finds breakfast in the bird feeder.

If I were a painter I would highlight the multi colors of a potted zinnia or the bright pink geraniums that punctuate the lines of the deck, or the different hues of the variety of trees that line the yard.

If I were a potter I would mimic the textures of the leaves and the stones in the driveway and the webbing of the chairs and the beading of the macrame plant hanger in my next creation. My work would reflect the color of the sandy soil, the clay pots, or the weather-worn wood that surrounds my house.

If I were a song writer I would use the staccatos of the birds singing and the notes that accompany their song to create a new and fresh summer melody. I would include the tones of children’s laughter in the distance and the pitch of the dogs’ howls and the sound of the wind blowing through the pine trees.

If I were wood carver I would create wonderful pieces made from fallen trees in the woods. And if I were a creative artist I would combine the rocks from the driveway and the sand from the grandkids’ sandbox and make the most lovely rock gardens and if I were a gardener I would create amazing flower and vegetable gardens that would make the specialty grower jealous.

But I am none of these.

I am merely an average writer who is suffering from sinus pressure and a momentary lapse of inspiration.

Aren’t we all that at one time or another?

 

Monday….Yes, It Is

Monday, for most of us, is Monday. I suppose that’s a good thing — heaven forbid we wake up after a wild weekend and find it’s Thursday.

But seriously — it seems that if we have a great weekend we pay for it somehow on Monday. Not hangover-wise, but, I dunno — karma-wise.

This morning at work my bff almost wiped out the database. No biggie. Driving to work I waited my turn to turn and almost smacked the car that crossed the intersection because they were just movin’ too  slow. Spilled lunch on my pants and burned my tongue on my coffee.

And that’s all before noon.

Now I know that stuff happens all week and weekend long. Life isn’t smooth. Just ask it. So I try not to complain and make my way through the madness the best way I can.

Someone once asked me why I don’t blog about the terrible things in the world.  I believe writing about these tragedies should be done by those who have more facts than I.  We are all horrified by the crazy Vegas shooter and the terrorists that drive down people on the boulevard in France or the nutcases that walk into schools and shoot up the place.

I have no idea what’s in the head of nutcases like that. So what insight could I give a reader? Gnashing over the same feelings everyone else has is often not very satisfying for a reader or a writer. Few of us understand the dark that dwells in the human mind. There’s a lot of the world I don’t understand, so I don’t try to explain it.

This weekend I went to a birthday party for a grandfather who turned 90. Say it. 90. Born in 1917. There was no TV back then; no computers, no cell phones, no social media. No tollways, no Big Macs, no penicillin. He made it through two world wars, the depression, landing on the moon, 9/11, plus raised three children. He lost his wife some years ago, yet is still the stronghold of the family.

That’s the kind of person I like to sit and write about.

So write your blogs, play your music, talk about your friends and family. Bring sunshine into your readers’ lives.  Laugh, teach, share. Feel the grief then move on. Bring a good feeling with you everywhere you go.

And don’t worry about the tomato spot on your pants. A spot in the vastness of the galaxy is not a spot at all…