Monday is a Monday

Mondays are the corporate world’s punchline. The stuff people with offices spend weekends on somehow lands on my desk at 8am. Staff meeting that felt more toxic than productive. Scheduling meetings with no timeframes. Clicking through LinkedIn, website backend, and notifications about shopping deals that might end up on the Christmas list for kids and students.

And then this afternoon—my oldest’s first ortho appointment. Braces. Jr. High. Didn’t she just learn to run laps around the kitchen in her walker? Now we’re in brackets-and-rubber-band season.

The weekend was fun but not productive, which stings because the next two are rodeo weekends. The grass didn’t get the memo to stop growing, and the horses don’t exactly hold their manure until Sunday night. Homecoming is going to be work.

But Saturday was the White Trash Bash for my neighbor’s 40th. My first one. Call me Dolly’s cousin Deborah—cutoff jeans, hose, tank top, trashy bra, hair sprayed to heaven. A gallon of Aqua Net and still not singed bald by the bonfire. Add in mowing the yard, then an evening out at Gerdes Farm. No agendas, no deadlines, no lessons. Just time. And I wish there were more of that.

Lesson learned: Mondays hit harder when the weekend runs wild, but that’s the point. Work will always wait. The people, the laughter, the moments—they don’t.