I woke up this morning not sure what day it was. I do that a lot now. One day just seems to melt into another, as the sun rises and sets. Does it matter, really, what day it is? Sometimes I’ll go all day thinking it is one but it is another, and the error made no difference in how I lived my life in that 24 hours.
Why do we talk about it so much? But we all do it. We get in the elevator at work with people we barely know or don’t know at all. Someone smiles and says “How are you?” It never fails the response is “It’s a Monday,” or “Thank God it’s Friday,” or “It’s hump day,” or something cliche about whatever day it is. Why do we do that? The only thing worse is conversation about the weather. “Brrrr, where is that sunshine they promised us?” “Supposed to get some rain today, aren’t we?” And the one that requires a forced chuckle, “Is it hot enough for ya?”
Why do we humans put so much thought and discussion into something we cannot control? If it just happened in the elevator, I would think it is just to break the uncomfortable silence for the 30 seconds we are in there. Otherwise, we just stand at that line of numbers counting down like it is a Christmas tree at the drag races and we are trying to qualify. But it isn’t just the elevator. It is sitting at the airport waiting for flights; the waiting room at the doctor’s office; and the breakroom waiting for our turn at the coffee pot.
What’s the alternative? Silence maybe. How about an actual conversation about real things? “How was your weekend?” “I had the stomach flu.” But that’s uncomfortable. People ask, “How are you, today?” and if the response is anything other than “I’m fine. How are you?” things get awkward. What about those people who say “I’m well, thank you,” after I respond with “Good, you?” Okay, fine. You have better grammar than I … or is it better grammar than me? It is me, right?
Too many mornings, lately, I wake up not knowing what day it is. I ask Charles and he tells me, but unless it is a weekend, I don’t really even care. Monday through Friday are a repeat of each other. I get up before the sun, journal, drink coffee, read a bit, practice yoga for an hour, have some breakfast with Charles, shower and go to work. Then I come home and eat a dinner one of us has cooked. We are in bed before 9 pm most nights. The difference between Saturday and Sunday are only important because Sunday is, regretfully, Monday Eve. So, why do we care? What is with the calendars we all have on our desks and phones? A Tuesday by any other name would still be the same as Monday. While we are at it, January and February are the same month. I just try to get through them as quickly as possible.
It is Saturday now, not that it matters. It was supposed to rain, but it just stayed cloudy all day. No rain meant watering my winter sown plants. The deciding factor was not whether it was Saturday, but whether the plants were dry. They were. Had it rained I would not have had to water, but watching my weather app made no difference whatsoever there. Yet, for some reason, I look at that app more often than any other app on my phone. Maybe if it the forecast didn’t change every time I opened it, I wouldn’t feel the need to check it all the time. I study those hourly predictions like I could decide “Oh no, I’m not in the mood for 25 mph wind today, I’m going to dial that down a notch.” If I could do that, I might choose a good winter storm for Monday morning that would land me working from home.
Come to think of it, why did – whoever they are – only name seven days? There are between 28 and 31 days in a month, and 365 in a year, but we recycle the same seven. Also, while I’m raging on nonsense, why do we insist on saying “day” after each? Why not drop it? “What day is it, Charles?” I might ask. “It is Wednes,” he could reply. The gentleman in the elevator that gets off on the third floor might nod to me and say “Have a great Mon!” I mean, we don’t say “bird” after cardinal, blue jay, and sparrow. We don’t say “dog” after poodle and corgi, so why do we insist on saying “day?”
These are the things I think about now.
Is that normal?
