I have a confession to make. It’s a bit off, and indeed some of you may find it just a little deviant. Ready? OK, here goes: I actually quite like Mondays.
…yes, yes, I know. It’s a horrible thing to admit. But here’s the thing: I’ve always had a thing for beginnings. I like beginnings of months, and beginnings of years (and once upon a time when it was relevant, the beginning of the school year was the greatest experience ever, a thing of fresh, clean notebooks and brand-new pens). So why wouldn’t I like beginnings of weeks? Monday morning is the piece of the week in which it all stretches before me in an expanse of beautiful potential. It’s a time in which I look ahead at all the things I will achieve over the course of the next span of days and feel a great sense of preemptive accomplishment.
I haven’t always liked Mondays, of course. In my old life, Mondays weren’t a time of beginning – they were an end. That is to say, an end to the weekend, the only part of the week that seemed worth paying attention to. However, not only is that no longer the case, but I often don’t even realize the weekend has come until it’s half over, unless I have something scheduled on a Saturday or Sunday (like a show!) that requires I keep careful track of the days. But I nearly always recognize Mondays, as a sign that it is time to reset my internal clock, sweep aside the unfinished business of Last Week, and set out anew on a fresh set of tasks (well, sometimes they do include some of last week’s leftover tasks in a sort of to-do list version of debt consolidation, but never mind that) with renewed vigor.
Or at the very least a new perspective.
…anyway, I like Mondays, these days. It’s a good way to put some punctuation in my week, and keep all the days from dissolving into one big ending-in-Y blur.