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Thursday.
Blech.
by Elizabeth
Bussey Sowdal |
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Everybody
moans and groans about Mondays, but I like ‘em. I know that sounds
crazy. I know that Friday is the big contender for the favorite day
of the week, the traditional one. But, Monday is really my favorite.
First off, after the weekend I feel refreshed, bright, capable and
energetic. I have things to talk about. I have hope for the future.
I have a whole, long, beautiful week ahead of me. All the time in
the world, and a million and one plans! There will be time to do everything
that I have planned plus everything I put off from last week.
Tuesdays are fine. Nothing special. Usually nice and busy. I still
have a pretty high level of energy. Wednesdays are okay. I may start
to drag a little on Wednesday afternoon. I might begin to doubt that
I can get everything that I had hoped to accomplish finished, but
there is still time.
Thursdays I hate. I despise Thursdays. I wake up late on Thursdays
and have to rush. I choose not to wash my hair on Thursdays and tell
myself that it will be all right. While I am sleeping the night before
Thursday my feet grow just a tiny little bit. Just enough to make
all my shoes feel a teensy bit tight. Just enough to mess up my balance
a little and just enough that I will underestimate the length of them
and spend the whole day kicking chair legs and jostling tables and
even tripping occasionally. Something happens to my teeth on Thursdays
and they do not rest easily in my mouth. I stutter on Thursdays and
embarrass myself by forgetting common words such as "stopwatch" and
"oleander" and, oh, you know . . . that thing we use for the deal
when we’re making that stuff. You know.
I will tell you about last Thursday to illustrate my point. It started
off late and badly. I had to dig in a laundry basket to find a pair
of underpants, because while I did get down to #7 on my To Do list,
which was "wash laundry" I did not get to #8, which was "fold laundry."
I got lucky and found a pair. They were even one of my newer, better
pairs. The kind that do not actually have elastic at the top and the
legs, but are kind of generally stretchy all over. I bought them for
vacation, as a splurge. Which is probably an indication of the pathetic
state I am in – thinking that stretchy underpants are real, real fancy.
Anyway, they were advertised as something like MagiDrawers, or PerfectPants,
or something and were supposed to be smooth and seamless. I do not
know why, at the time, I thought I needed smooth and seamless underpants
since my legs look like Rand McNally’s map of New Jersey. But, I did.
So, I put on the Stretchy Wonder Britches, threw on some clothes,
crammed my feet into my shoes, sped to work, where I said, "Gloof
mownig," to my co-workers, tripped on a chair and then got busy.
But there was something wrong. In my tushal vicinity. Great! It’s
Thursday! I probably ripped the seat out of my pants when I tripped
over the desk chair. I zip to the bathroom, check the seat of my pants
which is fine, firm and intact (the seam is, at any rate). I straighten
up, catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and remember suddenly
why #9 on my list this week was "wash hair every day," and get back
to work.
Thursdays, and this is another reason I hate them, are nightmare days
at my job. They are always very busy. By Thursday I am tired and I
feel stupid and I do not want to be busy. I kept slogging on bravely
through the day. And all day long I felt a funny, odd, not right feeling
in the southern hemisphere of my hastily assembled ensemble.
I finally had a chance to do a thorough investigation on my lunch
break. The problem seemed to be those stupid stretchy skivvies. They
seemed to be fitting strangely. Surely I had not gained that much
weight since the last time I wore them. And what is this funny little
pocket here on the right hand side. I never noticed it. I mean a pocket
on panties is a fine idea for . . . I don’t know . . . your spare
house key or something, but I never noticed it before. It doesn’t
even match, really. Well, it matches the cotton liner. Oh. Yeah. The
cotton liner.
In the words of Rosanne Rosanna Danna, "Never mind." I hate Thursdays.
© Elizabeth Bussey Sowdal
"The Girl Detective's Theory
of Everything"
October 5, 2007 Column
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