It’s Monday morning, a chunk time that has become one of my least favorites. Groundbreaking, I know, but recently it’s been a new kind of fresh horror. For the past couple of months post-layoff, now has been when the world resumes its routine, and I have nothing to do.
My husband leaves for work while I languish dramatically in bed. I eventually walk the dog, drink too much coffee on an empty stomach, maybe send out a few job applications before plopping down onto my couch, weekend joy receding, hours of emptiness staring me down. I have freelance work, sure, but not enough to fill eight hours, and the flexibility I usually enjoy with those tasks makes them easy victims to procrastination. I could exercise, cook, read, watch a movie, write. I could do a lot of things, and I want to. I really want to. I usually just don’t.
In my ✨sad, lethargic era✨.
But today feels different. I woke up early, wide awake before my alarm even went off. I watched the sun come up from under a giant blanket while sipping a foamy Nespresso coffee. My husband took this week off work for a little staycation, and I hear him stirring from bed now. It’s going to be 65 degrees by this afternoon. All signs point to a good day.
The plan is to do some leisurely grocery shopping, hitting our favorite specialty stores that are too crowded to properly sift through when we usually have to go on weekends. There’s a new thrift shop I’d like to check out. Maybe we’ll stop for a patio cocktail or bring home take out for dinner from the Greek place down the street. These are my absolute favorite days — aimlessly bopping around the city on a nice day with a little extra pocket money can squash any inkling of pessimism in me.
Another point for optimism: I start a new job next week. I hesitate to share more — being abruptly laid off from a company that had brought you on approximately five seconds prior will make you distrustful of anything good for a while — but I think things are looking up. Maybe I’m past my last painfully empty Monday.
❤️❤️❤️