They are the ugly duckling of weekdays, lacking the glamor of Saturdays or the flirty hope of Wednesdays winking and hinting that the weekend is just around the corner.
But Mondays. Mondays. If you are willing to peel back the beat-up old exterior like scraping off faded decorative paper from your walls, you will find the fresh patina of promise. A crisp, spring green frond unfurling into the workweek, delicate leaves licking possibility. The week is as yet untouched by extra hours at work or unexpected busy evenings.
Oh, Mondays. They are unabashedly ready for the bustle and industry of the next five days, leaving long naps and late nights in the wind as they jump and dance through the week on a full battery. You are completely recharged, gliding through your day, ready for anything. You have not yet begun to feel the gentle tiredness in your body and mind as you do on Thursdays, a sign of a week done well.
You know Mondays are one of the great unsung pleasures of the world, too often lost in the shadow of the weekend, made from its louder, flashier siblings. But Mondays, Mondays. They are the dependable pleasure of your afternoon cup of tea and your evening yoga; your daily walk and time at your writing desk.
Mondays. They merely go about their day, asking only that you sometimes pause and take in their quiet possibility.
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