Lousy, rotten Monday
As far as I’m concerned this is the worst day to start a week on.
This particular Monday, as you no doubt realize, had the terrible misfortune of being the one after that filthy bitch Daylight Savings Time reared her fantastically ugly head, stuck out her tongue and blew a wet, germ-spraying raspberry at us all.
So I got to wake up in the dark again, 6:40am, wondering just why the hell I agree to do this after all these years, wondering why I haven’t just explained to everyone that I just don’t DO Mondays and that whatever it is I have on my plate that day will just have to wait until the much more agreeable Tuesday to follow.
I zombie through the morning as usual, shower, dress, mumble barely coherent and somewhat incomplete elements of conversation at Tya, pet the dog, mention hello to the cat (who is not a morning person, either, and totally understands) and then grab my things and head out the door.
My desk at work welcomes me back like a cruel bastard, gloating; its face in the form of an Apple cinema display brightly (too brightly) beamed at me, inviting me to please stare back at it for the next 9 1/2 hours, and offering no consolation whatsoever.
I slo-mo through some emails and proof corrections, feeling the agony of the day’s first hour lumbering by before the Monday production meeting. It’s a blur of quaint chit-chat and business as usual, everyone being dragged back on the same page, given direction for the week.
Finally time for coffee, a chance to have a bowl of cereal. Wander down to the in-house food counter and order the usual - quad-shot cappuccino, skinny with cinnamon. I grab a small bowl of some sort Special K and a pint of milk; Walk it back to my desk, letting the aroma from my 4 mouth-watering espresso shots embrace me. Delicious mistress.
With the morning just beginning to grind out of first gear and into the flow of things for the day I get an icy splash of mild disaster to remind me - this is not my day. Three bites into the cereal and… somehow it slips from my grasp, spilling partially on the front of my shirt, and landing in a heap of milk-sogged mess on the carpet at my feet.
Touche, Monday.