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.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *