Dear Monday,

Dear Monday, 

It’s nothing personal – but you are not my friend.

Truly, it’s not your fault.

This time it really is me… not you.

There is no possible way for you to live up to the standards by which I expect you to behave.  You are a loose canyon, a butthead… and a killer of rainbows, unicorns and dreams.

In some enchanted wonderland where my body responds in an atypical approach to a dismal caloric deficit and one downward facing dog, maybe a walk around the block, I always aspire to make these changes on your day.

Granted, I fail, not you.

Again, this is me.

I actually feel a little sorry for your wretched self.

Literally, you are well hated by like… everyone.

No Hello Kitty Pencil lasts forever, the malted milk ball Robin Eggs only come out at Easter and there is no such thing as a balloon with a happy ending.  This is life, and your brand is defeat.

Frankly, I don’t know how to change this.

Don’t be smart, of course I have tried yoga.

See, it is that sarcastic and ugly attitude that continues to make me feel like you are not only incapable of change… you don’t really want to be different.

And maybe you are a victim of your circumstances but your circumstances can’t continue to make a mockery of my circumstances.  I am too tired to mess with your non-sense.  You aren’t even willing to encourage.

So you know what, maybe it is you?

[clickToTweet tweet=”Don’t be smart, of course I have tried #yoga. #monday” quote=”Don’t be smart, of course I have tried #yoga. #monday”]

Ya.  It is you.  It’s not me.

It’s you!  I am perfectly willing to set goals that make no sense and you are perfectly submissive in the cosmic wonder of your label.  A label that delights in spilled coffee, PMS, plumbing debacles, keys locked in cars, snags in panty hose, broken heels, lipstick on my teeth, mammograms, calls from principals, lost wallets, toddler tantrums, juvenile delinquent teens, husbands who bring home ice cream – when they know damn good and well Mint Chip isn’t paleo, whole 30, or resistible.  I believe you revel in my setbacks.

Granted, your voice sounds an awful lot like mine, but again… stay focused Jami, this is about you Monday, not me.

I can’t change the world if I continue to let you whisper loser mantras to me.

And I know what you’re thinking, you think you can make me think I am crazy again by making me believe that my life is a musical but I only fell for that three times, two of which were in high school, so only one counts.

Fool me twice shame on you… fool me three times and that gets cleared up with a little Prosac and a massage.

Again, this is where I refuse to continue to let you play mind games.

So, this is it bub.

I leave you with this promise, call me crazy, I will not celebrate you another day.  Tomorrow I may wear yoga pants all day and yes, I might eat Cheezits and wine mixed with cherry koolaid for lunch – but you’ll get no credit.  For as my grandma Mickey used to sing:

“Sweet Rosie O’Grady….

a garbage man’s daughter by birth. she got tired of living and wanted to leave the earth… so… she swallowed a tape measure but dying by inches was hard, so she went to the alley, and there… she died by the yard.”

You heard me.

You’re only ever as crazy as you behave on any given day for whose name I will not mutter.  Bring it on Tuesday, I dare you to mess with me.  I am a vegan, yogi, ninja come Tuesday, yes… starting tomorrow.

Just call me Grease Lighting.

Wait, don’t call me that.  I’ll think of another name….  by Wednesday, Thursday at the latest.

May your floors be sticky and your calling ordained.  Love, Jami

If we are “out of our mind,” as some say, it is for God; if we are in our right mind, it is for you. 2 Cor 5:13