When I was a little girl, listening to my favorite tunes involved a clean needle applied to a grooved vinyl circle. Nothing was a more unwelcome impediment to this process than a nick, scratch, or scuff that would stop the needle in its tracks, sending the music into a perpetual hiccup.
Monday morning I awoke to sunny skies and equally radiant spirits. I went for a run, hoping to give myself a healthy energy surge before I tackled an impressive list of engaging tasks. I was looking at the perfect window of time to complete these meaty projects before my upcoming departure on an even more exciting train trip.
But alas, my forward motion was sent off track as jarringly as an 80s power ballad derailed by a dinged disk. After a recent stint of anxiety-fueled unproductivity, all that vim and vigor was apparently more than my re-emerged psyche could handle. In an epic Man v. Himself worthy in itself of some haunting Phil Collins or George Michael treatment, I skipped back into, well, anxiety-fueled unproductivity.
It is beyond me how someone could do, literally, nothing all day, but nothing is the single track on my Monday discography. The blaring notes of Tuesday’s rude wake up call powered me over the bump in my path and by today I was mentally echoing Monday morning’s sweet refrain, but physically scrambling to make up for Monday’s, um, lapse.
I miss Monday. I wish I had it to do again. I wish I’d stood up and smacked down those scream-o voices that told me I somehow wasn’t ready to whistle a new tune. But now that I’m beyond the scrape in this week’s soundtrack, I’m not going to spend too much time looking back. Monday’s work laid a track over Thursday’s tune, so tomorrow’s pumping a high-energy techno beat and I need to be ready to dance.