A Friday That Felt Like A Monday

I couldn’t get out of bed this morning.  Although I woke before my alarm, as usual, and remained conscious even after I shut it off, it was as if I had married the mattress overnight. I, Keith, take you, Serta, to be my lawfully wedded wife.  To have and to hold, horizontal and happy, from this day forward.

Maybe it was the spring snow that had piled up overnight and the extra work that it entails to get out the door early. And now it was early, but I was making it late. Oops. Maybe it was remembering the laundry that sat in the washer overnight and was needed for today. And now it was today. Oops.  Maybe it was the checklist that didn’t get checked off by the weekend. And now it’s the weekend.  Oops.  Maybe it was knowing my gas tank was on empty yesterday but I’d put it off until the morning.  And now it was morning.  Oops. On and on the oopses (if that’s a word) piled up higher than the snow outside and kept me dreading the start to the day.

Once my new Mrs. had finally broken up with me, you’d think I would have snapped out of it.  You’d think I would have put some perk in my step and rejoiced in the feelings of Friday, but I just kept on moving slow.  Thankfully she didn’t take me back—even after many looks of longing and desperation.

After consoling my cup of coffee (or rather it consoling me), I got it together.  I found something to wear, pretended to not see the checklist on the table, got my lunch packed and was out the door to fuel up the car before heading to work.  Not bad, I thought.  Extra points for pulling it together, I told myself.

I get to work, pop the trunk for my stuff, but there was nothing to take inside.  My lunch, pack, and common sense had been left at home.  It was a Friday that felt like a Monday.

Back at home now, I’m about to make up with the ex.  I hope she’ll take me back.

 

 

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