August 25, 2014 by Labrys
…can’t trust that day, right? But Monday really begins with Sunday night, doesn’t it? When you go to bed at a reasonable hour so you CAN face the Mondayness of Being at dawn? And you lie there in bed, sleepless, but too frazzled to read whatever book has languished on your bedside.
If I drift to sleep at all, I might wake from a snippet of nightmare with a fixed idea whirling unpleasantly in my head. Then I lie in the darkness wondering if I will see the dawn without having slept at all. And trying to think of anything besides the horrible idea nightmare fixed in my mind.
So Monday comes all the same, I feel unprepared. The weather, which was promised hot and dry is humid and moderate instead — will the finish on the cedar porch dry today or not? The laundry is in piles awaiting attention. The garden is very thirsty, but you dare not raise the humidity around the tacky finish of the porch.
But I warm a cup of leftover coffee and begin the day anyhow. Dog fed. Cat fed. Ancient ferret nuzzled and fed and cooed over in distress because one of those frightening skin lesions she gets has appeared over night. I do a brief stint on my exercise machine, cursing the morning news that has a ratio of one story to three advertisements. The bird feeders, seed and hummingbird, await filling. It is the day of fresh ferret blankets, too. And houseplant watering day. And human bed-changing day. And the moon is new…
Ah, the routines that make me move when the world feels like a giant chunk of amber, and I feel like the captured bug! I think it is going to take j
umper cables more coffee, much more coffee to turn over my engine.