You're 100 Percent Wrong About Mondays
Monday is our clean slate, the absolver of past sins, promising the most American thing of all: a fresh start. Let the French have their languid mornings, their interminable August sojourns to the Amalfi Coast. We are a nation of Mondays—or at least we were, in the days of Rosie the Riveter, the days before “Netflix and chill.”
From an existential standpoint, hating Monday makes no sense. Mondays will constitute precisely one-seventh of your existence on this planet. It seems unwise to consign so much time—about 63,232 hours, if you live to 76 and sleep eight hours a day, by my calculations—complaining about the vagaries of the Gregorian calendar. Unless you move to Bora-Bora or become very rich, you will likely always live in a society with Mondays. And you will have to work on Mondays, and there will be an email waiting for you from that insufferable martinet in the Chicago office. Also, a long line at Chipotle. And no paper towels in the bathroom.
My point isn’t just deal with it. Rather, use the supposed lemon that is Monday to make philosophical lemonade. If the notion of returning to work on Monday morning truly makes you miserable, consider switching jobs. If you drank too much over the weekend, today drink less. Went shopping on Saturday? Give a fiver to the homeless guy standing near the entrance ramp to the freeway on Monday.
I do get that Monday can be a challenge. It shouldn’t be a prison sentence, though. We’ve pretty much agreed that Monday sucks and that the best way to spend it is to complain until it finally slinks in dejection toward Tuesday. But what if we didn’t complain about Monday? What if we devoted rigorous contemplation to the things that bothered us, instead of blaming our unhappiness or unease on poor and guiltless Monday? I know I sound like a high school guidance counselor, but I happen to think high school guidance counselors are the unacknowledged philosopher kings in our midst.