Scenes From Monday Morning

As I drag myself out of bed, I wonder why it is that I'm not taking advantage of a perfectly good opportunity to sleep in. Our bedroom is dark and peaceful, the only light struggling to seep in resides in the tiny spaces where blind meets window's edge. The sound of Lola's soft little breath whispers, barely distinguishable from the steady and quiet hum of a Hepa filter. I barter with myself, finally into sweats, running shoes, and the white hooded sweater my mother bought me for Christmas five years ago. She purchased this 'perfect for night running' article of clothing because I was running at the time, and being the wonderfully thoughtful and concerned mother that she is, she knew I would be easily visible day or night when sporting it. Thanks Mom, I finally put it to good use. 

As I step outdoors, I'm greeted by my neighbor and the scent of an apartment that's been smoked in for thirty something years. Outside is quiet and gray, smelling of gardenia and moist cement. Turning the corner I make the mental note of the stiffness felt in my thighs, extending down through the ends of my toes. A long weekend of much work and some play has left me feeling sore and tight. My movement feels confined and restricted. Slow. But I press on, enjoying the small drops of water showering down from the dark clouds above. I ease into things, keeping a steady pace, hoping that this gradual push helps warm my cold muscles.

Moving forward, I notice the lack of enthusiasm in my city. Mondays have this affect on people. I see the blank, saddened, almost ominous expressions plastered on the faces of light rail passengers as they inch closer and closer to their office buildings. To the final resting place where their bums will (or won't) reside in office chairs wrapped in cubicles like tiny holiday packages for eight hours a day. Five days a week. Their painted expressions lack variety but all tell the same story. One that holds memories of a wonderful weekend spent with family and friends. Away from the laundry-list of paperwork and phone calls. One of freedom. One spent upholding to the famous Shakespearean quote, to thine own self be true. 

On the way home, I begin noticing the increased activity. My city is awake and alive. Cars, buses, garbage trucks, and taxis crowding streets and parking structures add to the symphony of Monday. Women prance gracefully in heels, splashing elegantly in puddles as they make their way through crosswalks. Suited men walk powerfully and tall, dodging the oncoming traffic of their peers with the steps of a perfectly choreographed number. Mamas swing babes up and out of car seats, onto hips carrying the load of being both a mother and a professional.

I finally make it out of the rain and up the covered steps to our apartment. It is still and quiet. The soundlessness of sweet dreams weighs heavily in our bedroom as I creep in past the doorway. I'm greeted by the peaceful faces of two resting beauties, comfortable and warm. 

This is my Monday morning.