Mondays start at five o’clock on Sunday afternoons. That quiet, yucky feeling slowly creeps in and gradually gets louder and louder until it’s screaming in my ear,
Then it moves down to my tummy and settles itself into a tight knot like a snake in a wicker basket. Now and again I forget it’s there as I watch The Voice, recorded on Saturday, enjoyed on Sunday evening to be able to zap through the million stupid pizza ads. But as the credits roll, the feeling starts coiling and uncoiling itself in my lower abdomen, subtly reminding me,
The strangest thing about this snaky phenomenon is the fact that I really enjoy my job. There is a great team and a fun atmosphere. We sing and dance while we work. We talk. We learn from each other. We laugh – a lot. How many people can say that? Of course there are moments when I would like to slap a few faces and throw my roughest swear words around like rotten tomatoes. But that’s rare. In general work is fine. Work is cool. Work is good.
So why the yuckiness of Mondays? The breakfasts in silence. The dragging of feet across the bridge and up the street. The unhurried unlocking of the office door. Is it just me or is it a built-in human reaction to anything which finishes? Do we hate all endings, even just that of a quick, quiet weekend?
Or is the quickness of the weekend the problem itself? Two miserly days? We’re just getting into the swing of lazing and lounging, or dining and dancing when it comes to an emergency stop. Quick, step on the brakes,
So while I’m waiting for retirement (and at fifty that’s sooner than it used to be) I’d like to start a petition for one more day between Saturday and Sunday. It could be called Funday. And we would be allowed to use it for just that. An extra twenty-four hours of fun. A whole new day to swim or sleep or run or ride or eat or surf or play or hide or laugh or read or cook or write.
Just one more day. Please, please, please…
But then Mondays may be even yuckier. Too bad, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.