Trena Eiden

Recently, while chatting with a friend, I was bemoaning my dislike of Mondays and how it affected my attitude. Looking skeptical, Kathy chided me that the only thing any of us can control is our own behavior.

Slyly smirking, I raised my eyebrows, and matter-of-factly stated, “Well, that’s certainly not true and just goes to show how little you know about me. I control more than just my own behavior. I have the uncanny, call it supernatural, ability to at will, control Gar’s behavior. All I have to say is something that makes his blood pressure rise, and shazam, his behavior changes. Obviously, I’m that good. I’m basically a hypnotist.”

I don’t like Mondays, but really, who does? If we’re honest, we’ll say that anyone who enjoys Mondays shouldn’t be trusted. I don’t know anyone having a love affair with Monday, but if I did, I’d say there was something off-kilter about him — as though he might be a treacherous, Snidely Whiplash from Rocky and Bullwinkle. Here’s how I look at it: Monday should not be for working. It should be for sleeping.

We would get through the rest of the week much better if it was a day for relaxation. Instead, we’re peeved, miffed, edgy and irritated all day, and that’s before remembering we have to cook supper.

Tuesday isn’t much better. As a wise person once said, “Tuesday is Monday’s ugly sister.” It’s the day we let hang around because we have to. If we didn’t, we’d drop-kick Tuesday to the scrap pile with the other repulsive scourges, like ticks and leaches.

Wednesday is another sibling we loathe, but maybe just a little less than the previous two because it’s halfway over. If we squint, we can almost see the end, so we’re slightly less tense. Also, Wednesday has “hump day” going for it, a cute camel-type moniker. It means absolutely nothing but it sounds presentable, like it put on a button-up shirt and clean jeans.

Then there’s Thursday and Thursday is the little brother we’d almost like if he’d hurry up so we could get to the good part. Thursday tries and is almost, but not quite, our friend. We don’t despise it because, gee, it’s leading us to the Promise Land, but we don’t go out of our way to make it feel welcome by blowing it a kiss before walking out the door.

The exception is those folks who have a four-day work week. They love their Thursday and frolic all day, whistling an irritating tune sounding very much like Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffet’s, “It’s five o’clock somewhere.” It’s as if they are shoving it into our faces, mostly because they are. They make Thursday a little bed, complete with a fluffy pillow and a wee mint on top. It’s sickening.

Friday is the baby, and even though it cries a lot and makes us want to punch her right in the face for taking so long to get here, we realize she’s the tail-end of all we hate. While not exactly cheerful, we’re much less grouchy and a lot more jovial because really, we’re fond of Friday.

Friday would be our favorite sibling if we had to pick. We’re happy taking it to dinner and a movie and once in a while, if we’ve had a good day, we might reward it with a few dance moves in the middle of the kitchen. We especially like to do this if the teenagers are home so they can groan and say they’re embarrassed. For that alone, we love dancing with Friday.

Saturday is the blessed mother, making us cocoa with marshmallows and whipped cream, and waffles with smiley-bacon mouths and blueberry eyes. We have a lot to do on this day but we don’t care because well, it’s Saturday and as such, we’re madly in love with it. You have to try hard to make us mad on Saturday. It can be done, but you’ll have to work at it and who wants to work on this lovely day?

Sundays are the end, or the beginning, depending on if you’re dieting, so we want to be good-humored. We know it’s the Lord’s day and we’re supposed to be rejoicing, but sadly, it’s so short-lived. By late afternoon, we’re already melancholy about Monday and, well, we already know we despise that stupid day.

If you have another opinion about Monday, that’s good; two are always better than one — particularly if one is mine.