My love affairs are few and far between, but none is sweeter than the one I have currently going on with Monday. Monday has a bad reputation for being unforgiving and unforgivable, but to me, Monday is quiet, solitude, a break from the never-ending chore race that traps my weekend days.
Monday is the day when I get the house to myself, the coffee pot to myself, the newspaper, the computer, and the television ALL TO MYSELF. I don’t have to worry about small children’s curious eyes while watching Weeds or Californication. I don’t have to worry about someone commandeering my plan to kick back and eat chips with their own greedy, greasy fingers. I don’t have to think twice about who I’m stalking on Facebook. I can look at anyone’s pictures I want, and I don’t have to explain to anyone who just might be reading over my shoulder, exactly why are you looking at that or who is that, or isn’t that Batman from the 60’s TV show?
Yes. It is.
I can have a mimosa at 9 am if I want to and not have to make anyone else a mimosa. I can stay in my pajamas and not brush my teeth all day and there will not be anyone around that feels the need to tell me that my breath reeks or that I should maybe think about getting dressed. No one else to feed, and no one around to teach that sometimes Mommy eats chocolate for breakfast, and that doesn’t mean you should.
In short, Monday means that I am no longer anything to anyone. I have my self, my space, my thoughts and my time all to myself.
When I worked at a job on the outside, these thoughts never occurred to me. I lived for the weekends just like any other normal, breathing human being. I hated Monday because it began a long stretch of scheduled time, difficult challenges, work drudgery, and little time to get my stuff done. Now that my work is at home, my business can get done first. There are many weeks when I’m working to get to the weekend, but the weekend brings its own set of work in the form of three extra people who bring their own business to my workspace.
Sometimes I’m not very gracious about it. My loved ones pour into the house after a week at school and outside work, and dump their crap all over my tranquil center, and my eyes widen and my heart beats fast and I watch as they thoughtlessly trample the order I’ve so carefully cultivated all week. I ask them to pick up, clean up, watch what you’re doing, put that back where you found it. Most times I’m not so bitchy. They are home, happy to be here, grateful to be ensconced in a place where they are not graded or judged on their performance. They are safe, and I am happy that they are here, and that we are all together again. I am also happy because in two short days, Monday and I will be together again.
What do you mean, "already?"
That dawdling fool took all weekend to get here.