Week Stomach

I woke up this morning with a song stuck in my head.

I stumbled out of bed singing "I believe I am fixin' to die." I was singing in the shower. Singing as I drank my coffee. Singing as I put on my shoes and gathered my lunch.

Then Dana told me that I was not going to die, it's just Monday.

Fine. I'll go to work then.

I used to think people who complained about Monday were just whiny. They were stuck in a job they didn't like. If they just tried to find some enjoyment in their job and the people they worked with, Monday would actually be a good day! "Hey! I get to go to work this morning!" I was sure they would sing as they crawled out of bed.

I don't know if I completely agree with that anymore. I do not hate my job. I actually rather enjoy it. It's painfully boring, but I get to do things while I sit in my cube. I write, read, listen to music. Things that I would be doing at home, but here I get paid for it.

I'd rather be home, though. I'd rather be sitting on my couch, in my unders, with a bowl of chips. Not every day of the week, but I do on Monday mornings when the thought of getting out of bed makes me sick to my stomach. Like someone who walks past wearing far too much cologne. And not good cologne, either. Something like Bod. That's what it's like Monday morning. Bod cologne.

Tuesday, though, seems like a completely different story. The days aren't nearly as busy; getting out of bed isn't nearly as difficult, though my wife may disagree with that statement; and I feel as though the weekend is just around the corner. My co-workers don't seem to appreciate it when I say, "The week's almost over!" on a Tuesday. I don't know why...

I'm not convinced Wednesdays exist. I never remember anything that happens on a Wednesday. My supervisor told me I shouldn't put so much Bailey's in my coffee on those days, either, but I don't think the two statements are related.

Thursdays are slow. Not painful like a Monday, but it's the day before the day before the weekend. It's the armpit of the week. If Monday through Friday were a set of bathrooms, Thursday would be the dingy outhouse that no one wants to go to because a spider might crawl up his or her nether parts. There's not a lot one can do to spruce up a Thursday. It should probably just be burned.

Then the glorious Friday. The day that gets far too much credit. The day that is grossly overestimated. The day that holds her power over the other days of the week like an older sister with her first set of car keys. With her first un-shared bedroom. With her cute little sundress that mommy and daddy bought her. Everyone adores her and she knows it. She's a diva. She would be the bathroom with a clawfoot tub in the middle of the room. Just because she can.

I feed right into Fridays. I love Fridays. I try not to, but I can't help it. I get to go home and veg out for the next two days. Or go out of town. Or whatever I want. How is this a bad thing? And sometimes I get paid on a Friday. Those are the Fridays worth working for.

But, for every Friday comes a Monday. And these are the mornings that I wake up to face death. Or phone calls. Whichever comes first. I couldn't tell you which would be worse.