I am an expert in the field of Mondays. I know all about them. I’ve lived through a couple real toughies. The thing about Mondays is that it takes us away from our free time and family time. It’s the less than grandiose welcoming of what, for most of us, will be a long week of tough jobs, gas lights, electricity bills, homework, and cooking meals you have no energy to eat let alone prepare. (I lost the battle with my freshman fifteen the minute I realized eating ice cream from the tub demanded significantly less effort than making myself toast or eggs or basically anything that requires more than a spoon*).
*I did eventually get the eating habits under control and now, independently and of my own accord, maintain a mostly balanced diet. Adulthood doesn’t come with one leap – baby steps.
But this last year has been pretty “Monday” free. Maybe this is because I love my job or maybe because the hardest day of the week for me is consistently Thursdays so Mondays are more of a light-weight in the ring.
I was definitely due for a hair-pulling, teeth-grating, hand-wringing, gut-churning Monday. I got one.
I feel like I have spent most of this last week on a variety of buses – some of which are lovely, comfortable and don’t smell, others of which resemble steel-framed bacteria labs. But the point is that all this time on public transit has afforded me a lot of leisure to think.
I hate to say it, but this week my thinking took a path towards the discouraging, to the point where Friday night – on my way home from a Czech language/baking lesson – I ended up asking God, “Really, what’s the point? Why am I here? Why are any of us here?”
In order to explain how a good girl, brought up in the church and spoon-fed catechism and theology from a wee little age, could possibly question why we even exist, doubt God or doubt his eternally divine goodness, I need to take you back to Tuesday.
“Melancholy” was the word they used. As much as I like hearing the word melancholy (mostly because it gives me the mental image of a collie made entirely of watermelons), it concerns me that people find my blog depressing. I’d like to assure my readers that although my writing is admittedly melodramatic, I am by no means depressed (I’m having rather a laugh, as Pastor P might say).
My stories just acknowledge that life can be a lot like that guy who sticks out his leg and trips you. It’s horrible at the time but is pretty funny afterwards – especially if you’re not the one being tripped. So if it’s on the blog, it’s because I’ve made peace with whatever I’ve just tripped over and I want to share the story.
I have a story I want to share. It’s about yesterday.