I cannot overstate how much I hate leaving the house on Mondays. For all my recent ramblings and entries, I noticed that I’ve never dedicated one to the overwhelming bombardment of relentless shittery that are Mondays. So, here you go, Monday. Here’s your tribute.
It literally is the equivalent of being declared dead; I always find on Monday I have exhausted myself physically and emotionally from working all week, and if you couple that with the weekend antics required to deal with the fact I’ve been working all week and I’m basically flat-lining. But because life insists on going on, I’ve been resurrected by some cosmic voodoo and a need to pay the rent and subsequently I’m doomed to walk the earth looking, and feeling, like a zombie until at least Wednesday. If Monday’s were a fictional character they would be Jar Jar Binks.
On Mondays my tolerance for anything has been severely depleted; I have zero chill. No time for anything, anyone, at any point or any place. They (the calendar Gods) should invent and install an eighth day of the week. A day where you can sit down and have an intimate dinner with your problems and resolve them or collect your prescription – just a day where you’ve got a day to do stuff you can’t seem to fit in on any other day. Failing that we should hold a referendum to have Mondays removed from the week, seeing as we are holding them for everything else despite how damning the results may be.
On Monday’s my favourite form of physical exercise is sleeping, but sadly not on the cards as I have work. You know what the weirdest thing about having a job is? You have to be there everyday, even on the days when you don’t feel like it. This is my last week at my current store though; so I suspect it’ll be emotional and bizarre. I got my new timetable in for my new job, and the shifts are pretty decent – it seems I now have every weekend off and the hours are fairly fixed, so I’ll be able to create some semblance of a structured maybe-even-adult life. I am scared though, like this a big deal? It’s like, this is where I work now. I have to make new friends; I have to find a new place to buy frozen yogurt for lunch. I’ll have to navigate my outfit choices carefully to begin with. Like today, I’m boldly wearing dungarees, which still live in the grey area of fashion, and a lot of people think I look like a tall foetus. So in my new job if I wear them others may harbour the same opinion when I walk into the room and I’ll actually be able to feel the awkward. No matter what level of success I reach, I’ll still need to deal with the heavy baggage that is myself.
On the topic of insecurity, Mondays are laden with them – well for me anyway. Pro-actively I avoid all reflective surfaces like you avoid that one ‘friend’ that isn’t actually a friend, they just didn’t get the memo. Otherwise I risk the judgement of my own low self-esteem. Because on Mondays you have a completely different voice in your head. Should I bump into a reflective surface I shall most certainly have a minor mirror meltdown: My skin is so oily America threatens to invade; my hair hangs there like a redish ironed curtain. My eyebrows underline my forehead, like hairy caterpillars, major issue because weak eyebrows = weak presentation. All the while I try and crack a glossy half-smile but wind up looking constipated.
Mondays: All I do is mentally wrestle with myself, asking questions like “Do I really hate myself this much or am I still hungover?” or “Do I have a urine infection?” Mondays are full of a deep, self-involved narcissism but it doesn’t come from loving myself rather quite the opposite.