I hate Monday. It hates me, too; so much so that it creeps invariably and insidiously into my precious weekend, hiding stealthily in the background and then suddenly jumping up and down, arms waving and teeth bared in a Cheshire grin, a shameless attempt to muffle any sense of joy I might glean from two days away from the burden of service to others. Monday is a pile of steamed broccoli plopped unceremoniously in the middle of a plate of Saturday Steak and Sunday Mashed Potatoes and Gravy; both are ruined by its offending juices.
You see, I am a man predestined to a life of leisure; an existence without care or responsibility is the only one to which I am well-suited. Sadly, I so embraced this predestination in my formative years that I now lack the means with which to pursue it. As a result, I must press on, much like the rest of you born to strife and indenture. Most of you long ago reconciled your plight, since it is all you and your ancestors have ever known. Many of you may have even been bewitched into thinking that you enjoy your service in whatever form it takes. It is for these that I weep the most (figuratively, of course). You have been robbed, since the time that you were old enough to think for yourself, of any discernment as to what constitutes a meaningful life. Granted, for those of you who have chosen service to those less fortunate, there is some gratification in your work, but only if you’ve taken the time to see what it is that you’ve given up. I have spent a precious hour or two in this pursuit, and I can see the resultant pain absolutely magnifies the pleasure of the pursuit of oneself and is therefore a somewhat worthy endeavor in limited form.
I don’t mean to alienate anyone with the gist of this discourse; good for you that you are “happy” in your work. I merely mean to say that I am a king without kingdom, and Monday is a constant reminder that I am denied my birthright as a preordained appreciator of all that should be rightfully given me. How much more benefactor; how much more servant to the poor; how much more uplifting to the people so much less deserving than myself would I be, were Monday (and the other four maidens of service) the same as the two days I’ve been given to rest my considerable mind and body?
More, I dare say. More.