Sam Davies doesn’t fear Mondays. He embraces them. It’s Tuesday that throws a wrench in his week.
I don’t fear Mondays. I don’t fear the restart of the daily grind. Purpose is found on Monday mornings. There are things that need to be done, that can and will be done, if only I start doing them. Mondays are supposed to be rough, but because we expect them to be and prepare ourselves for the worst, they always end up contentedly OK.
There’s an initiative to Monday mornings. Sunday was yesterday–today will be different. Today will have a novelty that helps with getting out of bed, getting dressed, and facing, if not the entire day, at least the immediate morning. Monday is a deep breath, a reminder that I can do this.
Mondays can be prepared for. After two weekend days, energy stores are replenished enough that “just getting through Monday” is a goal that can be met. Mondays are the tutorial level of the week, reminding you of the controls and techniques you possess, but with the understanding that it doesn’t really count yet. Monday allows a return to the basics: Input. Process. Do. Review.
Mondays are contagious. Everyone is resetting, and everyone cuts each other more slack. The children just do things on Monday morning that require nagging on non-Mondays. The collective aura is improved with the sense that we are all restarting and that we’re just going to do what needs to be done, because Monday demands it of us.
People have Monday expectations of Mondays. Everyone has Monday on the same day. Monday is when everyone gives you leeway to process. It’s understood that part of Monday is figuring out what needs to be done. It’s understood that issues of lower urgency will be thought about on Monday, with action taken on Tuesday or Wednesday.
Monday ends with the sense that I did it, I made it through a Monday. The children and I may be tired and cranky, but at least we accomplished something. Of course we’re tired and cranky, we just survived a Monday.
I fear Tuesdays. There’s nothing special about a Tuesday, but you have to do all of the same things you did on Monday. The energy reserves are drained. The daily kipple, cleaned over the weekend, has started to grow. Tuesday expects us to make good on the promises we made on Monday, with the knowledge that Wednesday will bring no respite.
The children greet Tuesday with the attitude that they just did this crap yesterday and it’s too soon to do it again. Maybe, they think, if I delay putting on pants as long as possible, Tuesday will never come. Tuesdays always come, and Tuesdays almost always require pants.
People expect answers on Tuesdays. They expect things to work. They expect movement, not deliberation. They expect you to deliver.
And some Tuesdays you face the world head on, exceed expectations, and feel great about yourself. Some Tuesdays, you hide. You have the entire week in front of you to do the things you don’t really want to do, so you say “not today Tuesday, not today.” You end the day knowing that Wednesday is just going to be Tuesday over again.
The crankiness of a Tuesday evening is an existential crankiness. The broken drawer in the kitchen wasn’t fixed yesterday because, well, it was Monday. It wasn’t fixed on Tuesday because it’s never going to be fixed. If I couldn’t do something on a Tuesday, what is to make Wednesday, Thursday, or even the hallowed Friday any different?
Tuesday is your life in a day. Tuesday makes no excuses for you. Tuesday is the raw, naked day of your life that is entirely yours to shape. Tuesday shows you yourself exactly as you are. Tuesday is your normal, and it magnifies the good and the bad.
I fear Tuesdays because I have yet to figure out how to conquer them. But, that doesn’t mean I’m going to not try. My best days are a good Tuesday; I just have to figure out how to make a good Tuesday the norm. I’ll work at it, living up to my Monday promises and not dwelling in my Tuesday errors. I can think of nothing better than ending my day with my feet up, content in a good day’s work, and pouring Tuesday a friendly drink.
Photo by: avrene