I understand the misery of Monday

Something has gone terribly wrong with my favorite day of the week. Magical Monday has turned its back on me, and I’ve discovered why the Mamas and the Papas sang, “Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day …”

My preference for the day stems from my years as a stay-at-home mom. After the unstructured chaos of the weekend, Monday descended like an oasis of order. My husband returned to work, the children went to school, and all felt right with the world.

But lately, I’ve noticed a change. Instead of calm and structure, my work week descends with a cloud of commotion and confusion. Take last Monday, for instance. While getting ready for work I noticed a strange mark on my neck. I peered into the mirror. Melanoma? An unsightly blemish? No. It was a hickey. A cat-hickey to be precise.

Because Milo, our kitten, was weaned from his mother too early, he likes to suck on my earlobe or neck for comfort – especially first thing in the morning. When I hear him jump on my bed, I usually pull the sheets up around my neck to protect myself from his vampiric attentions. But last Monday his soothing purrs lulled me back to sleep, and he must have nudged the sheet downward.

To make matters worse, my husband had been out of town. How was I going to explain this? At what age does the “curling iron burn” excuse become ridiculous?

I dabbed some makeup on the mark, dug out a turtleneck and hoped for a cooling trend. Then I reached for my hair spray. A cloud of sickly sweet vapor descended. I’d grabbed my son’s can of Axe body spray.

By this time, I was already running late for my first appointment. I scooped up accessories, grabbed my briefcase and dashed out the door.

Though I’d felt a bit flustered I thought the interview went well. Back in my car, I adjusted my rearview mirror and discovered I was only wearing one earring. The other sparkled at me from the passenger seat. At least my sandals matched. The previous Monday I ran out of the house with one red sandal and one pink flip-flop. I really need to get a lighted closet.

Meanwhile, my Monday miseries continued. I squeezed my minivan into a metered parking spot. Then I remembered, in my haste I’d forgotten to stop at the bank for parking change. It’s a good thing I save pennies in my car ash tray. Do you know how many pennies it takes to get one hour of parking at a two-hour meter? Seventy-five. Unfortunately, I had only 37. Not that they did me any good. You can’t put pennies in parking meters. Thank goodness for the emergency coin stash I keep in my office.

I hurried into the building to grab some change, hoping to make it back upstairs on time for my 10 o’clock phone interview. As I swung the strap of my laptop case over my shoulder, it hit my now cold cup of “brewed coffee with cream, extra room.” A large brown splotch spread across my favorite pink sweater, making me glad I’d never embraced video phone or Web cam technology.

And I didn’t need to worry about the time on my meter expiring. It was an extremely brief interview. I’d forgotten to charge my cell phone the night before, and five minutes into my call, my phone quietly expired.

Did you know a recent study showed more people have heart attacks on Monday than on any other day of the week?

I’m beginning to understand why.

I’ve joined the multitudes who dread manic Monday. I can only hope it’s a temporary affliction. In the meantime, if you see me rushing through downtown wearing a turtleneck, one earring and a coffee-stained sweater, and if a cloud of Axe body spray lingers in my wake, don’t worry. It’s probably just Monday.