That dread of Monday that is pervasive in American culture is little different from any dread of doing a thing one favors not to do. I still wake up daily with an overarching, ingrained dread that must be dispelled from thinking patterns in order for it not to interfere with freedoms that are far greater a part of existence inherent in a life of chosen radical simplicity than not — it’s easy to forget what one absolutely doesn’t have to do. It might be something as simple as the school bell ringing across the street or the trashman’s truck approaching that a trigger will go off in my mind that makes me want to hide — to escape any sense of responsibility for answering to anything other than a course of willing engagement — exactly the reason why I chose to simplify my life so that I could have those freedoms.
I have a fence around my yard and a gate that stays locked. It is locked because there is a rather consistent parade of assorted people walking on the sidewalk all along the north margin of the property line on the outside of the fence. I had dogs and I was afraid some random accidental or intentional mishap might leave the gate flung open and one of the pups could and likely would go into the street and be hurt. But it became apparent to me that it was also a benefit to know that I couldn’t be surprised by the ringing of my doorbell without due warning and that that gave me an immense sense of freedom that I didn’t want to forfeit even after there were no longer dogs.
The dread of Monday is the alarm for the coming of an unwelcome interruption. It may not be that one hates their job. They may — but more likely is that they hate being interrupted from just being what they want to be. I personally loved Mondays because, for most of my career, I had them off. And, I semi-retired somewhat early in life and kind of made my own hours — so I could keep Monday’s from being dreadful and pick a different day to dread instead.
Even knowing, this morning, that I was likely going to attend the event I did and enjoy it, the dread still hovered when I first got up. Going meant I should groom my hair and make some eyebrows and fit proper clothes and remind myself not to forget the phone or lock the doors or turn off the coffee — all things that interrupt the normal flow that is akin to the front doorbell buzzing or the trashman reminding me that I, once again, forgot to put a bin out if I needed too — which, by the way is seldom — voluntary radical simplicity has its benefits.
All in all the dread was worth the compromise of eyebrow putting on and going out the front door to engage with other’s expectations. I’m glad it isn’t every day and that I have a choice. Having the choice makes all the difference.
Three girls who are really three old ladies now, drove in a car to have Thanksgiving dinner at one of the three’s church today. It was a lovely day of girl gab and story telling. One story I recalled because of something one of the other two said, was of how AWFUL it was to me, once upon a time in my career, that I was reduced to having to try to look busy all the time — which sometimes meant just waltzing up and down aisles over and over and over again trying to look like I was doing something. Oh. My. Gosh. I’d rather have my front doorbell ring without due notice — like when a certain feller/friend jumps the locked gate — there are all kinds of prisons to be in. That was prison and I escaped as soon as I could find the chisel.
It’s good advice to pick a different day than Monday for starting off a work week so that Monday doesn’t have to be so dreadful after all.
Writing Spool 