I don’t know what to think about Monday mornings. I like the contract work that I do, and I enjoy my weekends also. I can’t hate Monday. I can’t hate any day that I awaken with a chance for encountering wonder.
I took myself out to breakfast today. The shopping, cleaning, planning, and set-up which I did for a St. Patrick’s Day dinner this weekend inhibited me from getting groceries for myself. The Highway 12 Diner served me frozen, flash-fried hash browns; scrambled eggs cooked in oil on a flat-top; and an English muffin so over-toasted that I could have used it for street hockey. But my waitress “Deb” kept the coffee hot and the mug filled. She greeted every other patron by name and recommended that a woman who didn’t want to pay for the Diner’s fancy coffee try the free samples at the Opening-Soon drive-through coffee place down the road. I felt all right about the experience overall.
Daylight savings time allows me to arrive home after work with a lingering, pleasant misperception that I still have a whole evening in which I might accomplish something. But my middle-aged body doesn’t confuse as easily as my mind. I made dinner, then found myself staring bleary-eyed at a YouTube video about home decor. I actually enjoyed watching a BuzzFeed producer hack a wooden table four ways. I’m not handy but if I were, I’d try at least two of them.
Is it bedtime yet?
It’s the eighteenth day of the sixty-third month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.