A forgettable Tuesday.
I have forgettable Tuesdays about once a week.
In the full throws of my daily routine, Tuesdays come and go as just another hurdle in my sprint to Friday and the weekend. To me, there’s something special about every other day of the week. I mean, even Wednesday afternoon is the “Friday side” of the week.
I don’t remember driving to work this morning, but I must have because I suspect I performed my job once I arrived. I can’t be sure. Surely, my manager would’ve called if I hadn’t.
Put on a t-shirt, leftovers for dinner. Close the windows because it’s more humid outside than in. Trap in the smell of the leftovers, open the windows. The struggle for thermo-homeostasis in my apartment is never ending.
The Yankees are playing the Blue Jays in Montreal in that dreadful, echo-y, astroturf dome. The fans in the stands are spaced apart like freckles. Very forgettable. (But in a sparsely populated stadium, it might be easier to get on TV. Pros and cons, pros and cons…)
These are the days that I forget, but also the days that I long for. I crave my routine when I’m out of it. It’s like having ice cream all the time. It would be humdrum, but a day or two away and you’re thinking, “Mmmm… ice cream! I really like ice cream,” then diving into a bowl with renewed love for an old friend.
I am my everyday, imperfect self on forgettable Tuesdays.