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Monday Morning Panic

Mondays are hazy for me, clouded by weekend delights and antsy anticipation for the rest of the week. Mondays are filled with a panic within me, a quiet disturbance of twisting insides that are calmed by at least the afternoon. 

In grade school, my shoes were never tied right on Monday. My bangs were a little greasy from washing them the night before. High school’s Mondays brought the rest of Friday night’s whispers; the “who sat with who” at the game controversies, soreness from dancing all weekend. My complexion was clearer by Wednesday anyway, so who cared what I looked like on Mondays? The boys did. The boys who would remark if I looked like I managed to lose a pound or two would tell me that my face looked thinner…”If you could just work on clearing it up a bit…”

Adults always told me my skin was beautiful, Monday breakouts or not. I’ve always been fair skinned (thin skinned?) and suseptible to the sun. I wasn’t popular with alabaster skin. The girls who tanned over the weekend were. 

Mondays in college were worse. Skin was worse. Bangs were worse. Procrastination and panic, sometimes waking me hours before my alarm clock. Waves of nausia to wash up on Monday morning shores…I was messy, tired, disappointed that Sundays were so short. Too short. I still panic on Mondays, maybe not as much as my sophomore year at university, but there are still minor trembles of angst at 6:30 or sometimes even 5:45 a.m., right before I finally wake to pretend that I’m awake, drive to work, and brace myself until the afternoon.

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