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Monday, Monday
by C.J. Michaels
Issue 16
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Mondays are cool.

I like Mondays. Not because of some deficiency in my mental process or because I am damaged in some way or simply weird, but because I understand them. Now, I comprehend the week and know the characteristics of its days intimately and can say that Mondays are special.

The problem with Mondays, as I learned long ago, is that most people don’t appreciate them. They’ve got the week all wrong. The average office worker who detests Monday has things skewed.

Misunderstanding Mondays isn’t their fault, they just need direction. Like traffic at a broken light or an ATM queue snaking across the sidewalk and half way over the road.

It’s Tuesdays, they should fear. Tuesdays are the biggies, the day of all days to avoid. If you need an unplanned sickness, a root canal or an interview, make it on a Tuesday. Get that day out of your week. Not Monday. Mondays are cool.

Mondays follow too closely to the weekend to cause more than a hint of the misery to come. The week proper and all the hell it entails hasn’t started yet. Monday’s an extension of the two days you’ve just had, that mini-vacation after last Friday, when the stuff you’re winding down from is still in your head and the week hasn’t reached the level of dread and loathing that it soon will.

Monday represents companionship, free coffee and an audience to appreciate and provide embellished reports of weekend activities that might not, in reality, have rolled out quite as planned.

By Monday, you’ve had forty-eight hours of lust to wonder whether Jeanine, the French import in the typing pool, will come in with the tight top or the short silk skirt with the slit. Maybe she’ll start things off on a high by wearing both.

Anything not done in a timely fashion can be written off to Monday morning blues or that always-blamed slowness at the start of the week. Nothing gets going until after a couple of coffees and a chat about the weekend and that takes half the morning. A quick conference with the boys at the water cooler about whose turn it is to lure Jeanine to the edge of the balcony for the benefit of those stationed below and we’re almost at lunch. A long one of course, as it’s Monday, so back at your desk by two - or one-thirty at a pinch – followed by the short slide until afternoon coffee.

All that’s left is a couple of hours to get everything sorted out and tidied away in readiness for Tuesday. Day two of the working man’s week, otherwise known as Hell.

Anything that could pass unnoticed on Monday gets expanded, magnified, amplified and shoved under the boss’s nose on Tuesday. Atonement Day. Confession Day. Bad Shit Day. Real Bad Shit Day.

Monday allows excuses galore, reasons for failure, even something to look forward to if you’re a slightly sad individual with nowhere else to go, but Tuesday? Let’s face it – Tuesday, you’re dead.

The boss doesn’t accept your excuses, workaholic managers don’t understand your reasons, or see any logic in carefully concocted explanations about why you haven’t finished the accounts payable or achieved whatever mundane task has been assigned to justify the paltry paycheck that isn’t due for another three weeks and hardly lasts a fortnight.

The only time Tuesday ever passes without foreboding and more than a twinge of agony is when Christmas falls upon it. Boxing Day will do at a pinch, if you live in England or any other country that celebrates the day after Christmas, but that screws everything up big time because then Wednesday becomes a logical Monday and Thursday becomes Tuesday. You still get all the usual fucked up feelings of inadequacy in the workplace, but generally the boss isn’t in, so things aren’t too tight and the rest of the messed up week is short.

Tuesdays are dark. Tuesdays should be reserved for suicides, or exorcisms, or exhumations for DNA testing of long-ago hanged murderers who might not actually have been guilty, or watching low-budget horror films where the level of gore matters more than the plot.

Nothing gets lighter until Wednesday. Not the morning, unless you’re very lucky, so don’t count on anything good occurring before noon. After twelve, after lunch, when the morning’s no more than a memory, like the hangover you got by recovering from Tuesday, that’s when life begins to look up. Then comes the time when the powers-that-be share your desire for the working week to fade into yesterday and are eagerly scanning their leather-bound diaries in anticipation.

No longer are they looking to cut your pay, drop your job or unleash untold mental punishments upon your always-sorry, excuse-ridden person. Now, the week’s far enough from it’s beginning to forget the fears and unpleasantries. You can almost smell Friday and the whole office shares a feeling of impending release. It’s like reaching the ocean after a long car journey, when someone opens the window to let the smoke out.

Thursday’s gone in a blink but nobody cares or even notices because what follows is the best day made, but for the short time it’s there, spring hits the office. Guys who’ve been there a while are asking Jeanine out. Those who’ve not and still look like they left school yesterday are thinking the same, but worrying what they’ll do if she says yes. Thursday brings strength and hope. A promise of brighter things to come.

Friday. Prelude to the weekend. Gateway to all things happy. Sometimes it’s payday and the presence of a small blip on the otherwise flat-line overdrawn bank account makes it extra special. Long lunch in the pub day. Mis-pronouncing French words and chasing Jeanine around the typing pool day. Leaving work early and scrambling back to the pub day. And then...


Saturday and Sunday - over in a flash and back to Monday. Gone in less time than it takes to mentally review the lingering vision of Jeanine’s g-string over a good wank. Zip! Weekend – then not weekend. Where the fuck did it go?

Time between Monday and Friday: five days. Five long excruciating sets of eight hours drinking bad coffee, avoiding the boss, wondering where life is headed and whether you really want to ride the bus that’s going there.

Time between Friday night and Monday morning: two nanoseconds. Not even enough to properly blink. What fool put the universe together like that? Poor design, if you ask me. No wonder God rested on bloody Sunday. Tired, probably, but what did he have to look forward to?

If only he’d seen things my way. About Mondays, I mean. Next time He does a bit of Let There Be Light stuff, I suggest we have a chat.

Remember, though. Mondays are cool.

I like Mondays.

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eva2006-09-04 12:35:34
I'm trying to get your point -really hard - but it's so difficult.. my head is not with it.. it's Monday...

Thanos2006-09-22 09:09:08
I feel the same Eva, on ...Mondays

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