Wretched Monday

Monday. Monday. Monday. Without the bad, you can't have the good. Even now that I'm officially out of the workforce, Mondays still give me that sick little feeling in the pit of my stomach. A whole week to do everything I need to do. A whole week to feel guilty about not doing them. A cure to Mondays might be to just have more depressing weekends. Less relaxing with friends, not as many good restaurants, more rainy afternoons. Then maybe I'd actually be prepared for the sharp kick in the gut that is otherwise known as Monday. I guess it's all about the hangover effect. The better your weekend, the worse your Monday.

I don't know why after over a year of not having to put on pantyhose and a demure attitude I am still haunted by the Monday effect. Maybe because I know that under certain circumstances, I could be thrown right back into it all. Let's say Spike gets exposed on national tv as a fan of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and dies of acute humiliation, my free ride screeches to a halt, I spend every last cent on deluxe breakfast cereal, Pixie gets taken by social services, and I have to go back to the only career I have known so far - the ambiguously qualified "administrative assistant." I would show up on my first Monday in my old black trousers, scuffed loafers, saggy green button up shirt, and too much eye liner trying my hardest to look like a cut-throat secretary who'd go to any measure to ensure my boss didn't get any calls put through that weren't of dire importance. I would take the 5 minute power lunch in the copy room - wolfing down my meal supplement bar and 24 oz bottle of water. Then it would be back to my desk where I would furiously edit, organize and prioritize for the next 5 hours until 5:30 when I scurried efficiently home.

This is still a very real future for me. I am haunted by my own administrative competence. Why couldn't I have just been an English major and have no career options to turn to so I could just go on welfare and call it a day? It's a little reassuring to me that Spike jogs every morning. As far as I can tell, his current cardiovascular health is above average so for now, I should be able to breath easy. And then just when I think I'm getting comfortable, Monday hits. At least I'm no longer having dreams about work. That was the worst. I would go to sleep, then dream about 8 hours of document review, transcribing dictation, and reasoning with impolite clients. Then I would wake up and go to work to do it all again.

Today promises to be a pretty good day. I have good company in town, a yoga class to attend, a happy baby who thinks I'm funny and dinner plans at a great restaurant in Chinatown. So you'd think I could shake the Monday blues. But instead I liken myself to those Desert Storm troops. There is a lingering malady that will haunt me for the rest of my life. The ghost of office work. I'll be happily going along my day and then somebody will mention something about an Excel document and I'll fall into a pit of depression and formulas. Before I know it, I'll be swapping tips with them about how to format columns so that any information, regardless of length can fit into a given column without affecting the print area or spreadsheet layout.

So Tuesday, I know you are galloping in on your white horse to save me. I pine for you. I dream of you. I hope you bring the promised peace from Monday that I remember from last week. Let us all hope it is so. I'll wait for you, my sweet - till then.