Bad Mood Rising

Should Monday be food, it would be bland, without flavor, and lacking in texture. It is the unwanted, oft-maligned stepchild of the calendar.

Forcing my eyelids to unstick, I flop my hand across the nightstand like a fish out of water, searching for my spectacles. I wrap them around my ears and peer out the window, immediately wondering why. On the other side of the glass there is nothing worth seeing; a graywashed, dreary, cheerless, featureless foggy curtain. Redwoods might thrive in such environs but I am not made of wood; nor, especially on this morning, do I feel that I stand tall caressing the sky. I wipe the last remnants of an unremembered, but disturbing, dream from my psyche, plant my feet on the cold hardwood floor, and shuffle sorrowfully to the bathroom to begin my morning constitutional.

Showering is so pointless. Why get clean? I'll just be dirty again tonight. Yet, I lather up, feeling like a hypocrite against the entropy of time. Life's patterns, all so banal; why am I here? Why bother? What's the use?

There is no mistaking; it is Monday with a capital "mon." The whole week lies forebodingly ahead. Five days to the weekend. Dear Lord, please give me strength - and lots of chocolate.

A chirping, artificial, annoying ditty is emanating from my cell phone; the voice mail notification informing of a received message. And while we're on the subject, whose bright idea was it to make alerts sound "cutesy?" Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned blaring buzzer? Twittering upbeat sounds are for birds, not electronic appliances.

Begrudgingly, I thrust my forefinger onto the speed dial button, anticipating yet another time-wasting activity I will have to squeeze into my already-bursting schedule; or a loathsome, pathetic, high-pressure sales pitch left by an automaton robo-telemarketer trying to separate me from some of my miserly earnings.

Surprisingly, from the speaker pops the upbeat, wide-awake sound of my son calling from southern California. Assuming the worst, panic squeezes my chest; why would he call so early unless something is wrong?

"Hi Pops," says he. "I had to open so I've been awake since four. My coworkers were talking about our parents and I realized, that although I think it a lot, I don't say it. I wanted you to know how much I admire you. You're a role model, the man I want to be. I'll call later when you're awake. I love you. Gotta get back on the floor."

I am frozen in posture, staring dumbly at the small speaker on the telephone. I poke replay; yep, that's him, not somebody else's son who dialed a wrong number. Replay. Doesn't sound like he's on drugs or anything. Replay. Replay.

Eyes moist with joy, I mutter to no one, "That's my son." A goofy smile is cemented on my face. One brief moment; a simple, heartfelt thought; yet strong enough to push a complete revolution of outlook. You gotta love a Monday like this, even without chocolate.

Ensuring I pressed "save," I depart on my morning walk, grinning joyfully as the fog embraces me.