Monday arrived with all the enthusiasm of an unpaid bill. Technically, it was a brand-new week, full of possibilities and opportunities and all those other inspirational things people say when they clearly have more energy than I do. I, meanwhile, was feeling a little blah. Not dramatically blah. Just that special kind of blah where you’re functioning, you’re getting things done, but somewhere deep inside your soul a tiny voice is whispering, “Could we perhaps just go back to bed?”
But there was work to do, dogs to walk, places to be and responsibilities that apparently do not disappear simply because I have emotionally unsubscribed from adulthood. Rude.
So off I went, doing what I do, and by Tuesday the week had already decided that simply being busy wasn’t entertaining enough. No. We needed a storyline.
Enter the tomatoes!
Now, there are conversations you expect to have during your workday. How was the dog? Did they poop? Did they eat? Were they good? Normal things. What you don’t necessarily expect is to find yourself involved in a discussion where tomato sauce becomes a significant plot point. And yet, there I was, because apparently this is my life now.
One of the dogs I walk, his bestie lives next door. I also give him little snackies and happened to give him a big treat the day after his birthday! He’s a sweet little golden doodle. His Dad decided to gift me some of his homemade tomato base! I’m so looking forward to eating it.
And really, sometimes that’s personal growth.
There comes a point in life when you realize that not every thought needs to be shared. Some thoughts should remain safely tucked inside your head where they cannot cause property damage, hurt feelings or require you to explain yourself later. This is called maturity. Or exhaustion. At this stage, I honestly can’t tell the difference.
Tuesday continued Tuesdaying, because apparently one Tuesday per week is not punishment enough. By the end of it, I had reached that familiar state where you begin questioning how it is possible that Monday was only yesterday. Surely we had lived at least six business days since then.
Then came Wednesday.
Wednesday showed up muggy.
Not pleasantly warm. Not “what a beautiful summer day” warm. Muggy. The kind of weather where you step outside and immediately feel like Mother Nature has wrapped you in a damp towel. Your hair develops its own opinions. Your clothes become emotionally attached to your body. Breathing feels suspiciously like drinking the air.
And because I walk dogs, there is no observing this weather through a window while sipping something cold and saying, “Wow, it looks humid out there.”
No.
I am out there.
Walking.
In it.
By this point, the week was becoming less about thriving and more about completing each day without lying down on somebody’s lawn and announcing that I lived there now.
Still, we carried on.
That’s the strange thing about adulthood. You can wake up tired, become more tired while getting ready, spend the entire day talking about how tired you are, come home completely exhausted and then somehow refuse to go to bed at a reasonable hour because you “need some time to yourself.”
Apparently the solution to being tired is revenge bedtime procrastination.
Brilliant system. No notes.
Thursday seemed to disappear entirely, which I’m choosing to interpret as an act of mercy.
And then somehow, against all odds, Friday arrived.
By Friday, motivation had packed a tiny suitcase and left without providing a forwarding address. My remaining energy was being rationed like wartime sugar. Anything requiring more than three steps needed to be submitted in writing and reviewed within five to seven business days.
But there is something magical about realizing you’ve made it through another week.
Not inspirational magical. I’m not standing on a mountain with my arms raised while inspirational music plays in the background.
More like crawling across the finish line, looking around and saying, “Well, nobody died.”
Sometimes that’s enough.
Because despite the tiredness, the humidity, the dogs, the strange conversations, the spaghetti sauce incident and my rapidly declining willingness to participate in society, there were laughs. There were ridiculous moments. There were things that seemed mildly annoying when they happened and became absolutely hilarious once I was safely home.
And really, that’s most weeks.
We start Monday believing we have some sort of plan. By Tuesday, tomato sauce has somehow entered the narrative. Wednesday tries to steam us like vegetables. Thursday quietly, but busily removes itself from the record. And by Friday, we’re surviving almost exclusively on sarcasm and the promise that the weekend exists.
So that’s the week.
Was I productive? Yes.
Did I accomplish things? Absolutely.
Did I occasionally stare into the distance wondering why adulthood doesn’t come with a customer service department?
Also yes.
But I made it.
And tomorrow is another day.
Unfortunately.
But that’s Future Me’s problem. 😂
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