As I did my rounds this morning, about three, maybe sixteen people groaned the following statement:
“RRR, it’s Monday.”
I have said it many times myself, but I don’t really get why I do. Makes no sense. Why do we hate Monday?
There should be some way to count all the times the world over (the Monday Fearing World that is) that some jerk who’d rather be binge drinking underneath a school bus, uttered that statement. I am surprised that it never gets old, and in many ways replaces, “Hello. How are you?”
Perhaps language instructors should modify their lesson plans to include “RRR, it’s Monday” as an acceptable substitute for the main ones that they throw at you when you learn any language.
Guten morgen!
RRR, es ist Montag.
Just like that. Easy.
I don’t really HATE Mondays. In fact Mondays are the days when my mind is as erased as it’s going to be, and since I have little recollection of the bullshit I left behind from the prior week, I actually feel slightly optimistic about the week ahead. I actually think I’m going to get things done and that things will go my way.
The day that is worse than Monday is by far Sunday. Sunday is for and by assholes. As a kid, my parents made sure to sock it to us early by going to church first thing. Some of you dig this place, I don’t. Not judging you.
I don’t like any place where I have to stew quietly on hard wooden benches for stretches at a time when I was perfectly content in bed. So I stopped going at fourteen. I don’t know how I got around it, but no one seemed to mind out loud. Eliminating the church factor definitely made Sundays a fuckload better, but it seems that space became filled with other free-time zapping Sunday anxiety.
I got no church to hassle with, but I have the all day, looming buzz kill, countdown to sleep and the end of all fun as we know it.
Some people have no beef with Sunday, in fact they LOVE Sunday. Who the hell are you? Puritan hold overs?
Stores don’t stay open as long; the radio is an abomination of public service spots, slow jams, and love songs and dedications; and the whole day just feels like borrowed time.
I don’t turn on the TV on Sunday because I don’t want to see Televised Sports – the quintessential Sunday buzz kill. Again, some people get off on Sunday Televised sports. Not judging you, just silently stabbing myself in the eyes. Growing up, after church, since we only had one TV, we then had to watch our dad watch his televised sports, yelling at the Ref, or at Magic Johnson, spitting bits of fried pork into his mustache, while the hot suburban sun made its full arc from high noon to evening.
“But it’s still a day off for you right?” you might ask.
Yes, of course it is and I would hate to work on Sunday, as I have in the past. I live in the future, that’s why it sucks. When Monday finally arrives, I can deal with it, and since it doesn’t look much different from Tuesday or Wednesday, I’m in the present on Monday. But Sunday is all about anticipation of Monday and I have tried many many approaches to de-criminalizing Sunday, including, but not limited to recreational drugs, hallucinogens, spa days, frat parties, key parties, you name it. The sad sad feeling always rolls in around 5pm.
I have often wondered if I would feel the same way if I didn’t have to work on Monday, and the answer is yes. It’s hard wired. There were many times that I’ve been unemployed -some call it freelancing - for long stretches and it still feels like a life sentence in traffic school with all your favorite dickheads you meet on the road.
Even Morrissey, the person who inspired this blog thinks Sundays suck.
So here I am, it’s RRR Monday and I’m cool with it. I made it through another Sunday.
It would be great if someone in blog-land could tell me of their own Sunday love/hate, but focus on the hate. Yes?
RRR.
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5 comments:
I like calling Monday, Dumbday. I was just thinking of these thoughts the same way so it's interesting to see your blog as directing reflecting that. I love blogs for being able to do that. . ..
I do hate Mondays just like Garfield. I think it's hardwired into me to hate it because, I always remember doing all my homework at 10pm on Sunday nights and totally show up at school freaking out. . .thinking that I'm wearing the same pants as I did on Friday and kids are going to make fun of me. For me Monday and Sunday each have a distinctive place in our lives. This artificial beginning ending bullshit that society has created.
For me Sundays are rather relaxing. . .i do lots of chores and by sunday night if i'm not with my peps having a swell time around a movie I'm content to let the whole week of experiences wash over me. When I fell asleep last night. . I thought about it being Monday when I woke up. . not dreadful but, a little more of an acceptance of this whole life of jobs and weekends and all the dumb shit we can sandwich in there. . .It felt good to realize it was just another day in this life and we have to make each day amazing and don’t let the name of the day or the lack of a job determine our happiness. . .All those RRRrrr Monday people need to find some new caffeinated substance in the mornings or wake up and realize this is their prison sentence and start saggin’ those pants. . .Wake up moron’s!!! It’s just another day. . .Geeeezzzzz.
J. Paul Sunday,
I hear you on the homework. Even though I had nowhere to be on Friday and Saturday nights when I was a tween in the burbs, I’d let that bastard pile of Intro to Adult Procrastination files haunt me all weekend, then hour by hour on Sundays. 9AM, Popeye cartoons or Homework? 10AM Kidz Incorporated or Spelling? And the day flopped along like that until about 9PM after Knight Rider, Amazing Stories, or Our House, Starring Wilford Brimley or whatever filler NBC could toss on the air. With each year, it got later, and often times into Monday, then I’d call in sick.
And I read your thoughts and feelings re Sunday now, and I can only say GOOD FOR YOU Gandhi. Sweeping and relaxing. Must be nice.
My ass is in jail and I’m saggin just like the other lifers who want a finger in they butt.
To be honest, yesterday wasn’t that bad. I had brunch at a new place near my house, and after some good old-fashioned compulsive shopping at the mall, I spent most of it happily refinishing some furniture and jockeying my cart at OSH. I just have to remember not to turn on the radio – it accentuates the lingering shitty feeling.
Wow! You really have time issues. I'm not as bad. I think sundays are fine way more than mondays. I like sunday because I can hang out with my cat and I'll just read the paper while I listen to talk radio.
"RRR, It's Monday" really translates to, "Don't even THINK about talking to me!" Escapist tool #26, throw garbage out your mouth, and the masses will scatter. Lazy.
I stopped attending "Sunday School" when I was 14 as well. Up until that point, I didn't really have a choice of whether to stay or go. My Grandmother, legal guardian, would drag me out of the house by my long, braided hair. Can you image the torture of ME the tomboy dressed in purple frills and biblical hair! We were Pentecostal, which meant girls did not wear pants. Girls did not cut their hair short. The only time my grandmother left town, I jumped right over to the nearest Super Cuts, chopped my long, golden locks off and embarked on the worst Perm in history. (No one warned me you had to maintain that shit!)
I made a decision when I was 10: No more Sunday School for me. I even had a brilliant argument, borrowed from the most recent bible lesson. God seemed to be doling out "signs" left and right. The cup was empty, and then magically full again. The sea was swelling, and then parted. Well, the only sign I had received was that these people were freaks; dancing and sprinting circles around the church pews, unintelligible speech except for the occasional hallelujah. My grandmother occasionally allowed me to slump over in my seat during evening services, but who could sleep with all that wailing!
So, I simply told my grandmother that I sincerely believed if it were god's intention for me to attend church on a regular basis he/she/it would give me some sort of sign. I had not been the recipient of any such sign up to that point, therefore no need waking me on your way out each week.
She told me that the devil was talking through me, and I resumed my role as the lord's slave for 4 more grueling years.
So, Sundays are mine. No matter what I do or don't do, as Bobby B. would say, "It's my prerogative."
Dear Selfish Viennese Satan,
Good for your for naming your Sunday Poison. Sorry they femmed you out when you'd rather look like Jo on Facts of Life.
The question is this, since you haven't been the lord's slave for a long time now, who's slave are you?
Are you looking?
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