Although I have designated you, dearest Monday, as a set aside, a work from home cloister, a jewel in the shell, just like last Monday, I found myself at work.
I could have busted in like a ninja for my 11 a.m. meeting and disappeared like a wisp of cloud. But I talked to people. I sent emails. I graded two assignments. I let my battery dwindle to fourteen, then eleven, then ten percent before I finally came home.
Monday, you were an inversion.
Monday, you were breakfast with a longtime friend.
Monday, you were recovery from insomnia.
Monday, you were no workouts at all
Monday, you were cherry red boots worn for the first time this season.
Monday, you were a problem solving wizard.
When I held up the candy bowl in the vestibule, with but three blue Jolly Ranchers in it, plus pathos-ridden shards of other hard candies, a friend rushed to the cupboard and pulled out mini chocolate bars. That's what you were, Monday: emergency chocolate, borne by the hands of a friend.
Monday, I think of you as the solitude after the weekend. The day on which I collect my wits and energy and focus for the rest of the week, in silence. The day when the only direct request to me comes from the dog. When I make my midday meal and eat it alone.
But I will say that several conversations with my office next-door neighbor were to be cherished. My load for fall semester sorted? Priceless. Word on when we might expect to order our new laptops? Inestimable. A chat with my movie-going friend about The Revenant? Ineffable.
In short, dearest Monday, I spent you the way I spent you, all right? Maybe your set aside and solitude and shell and jewel and silence will seem all the more lovely next week, on account of my friend breakfast movie-talking problem-sorting cherry red boots with a mini chocolate bar on top today.
Let's try to bear that in mind, shall we?