The Mondays of wintertime is God’s acknowledgement of myself.
I wake up to the chilled air of a Monday knowing exactly what’s in store for my toes before they reach the abrasive black and teal tiles of the shockingly frigid floor.
I shiver.
I prance over to my red and cozy slippers by the door which have been worn down to a thin layer that is barely enough to keep those black and teal tiles away from my bare skin.
I stretch.
I gather clothes from my closet, and with half opened eyes that are sticky with my night’s slumber I dress and trade my red slippers for black boots.
I yawn.
I walk across the campus in those black boots, appreciating the frosty grass and faithful squirrels who join me on this Monday ritual.
I breathe.
I continue past the residential buildings and watch as people open doors to the world as if their gentle touch could shush the tires on nearby cars.
I relax.
I admire the ears of those with steps as soft as mine, looking much prettier when not adorned with headphones.
I sigh.
I step into work and the elevator dings and the coffee is brewing and I struggle to unlock my door and an early riser talks on their phone and I wonder when my keyboard became so loud as to punish my calm with each key stroke and a printer comes to life and the trash is being collected and papers are dropped in the hallway and the unfrosted window now holds a sun fresh with the promise of an end to my muted Monday.
