The Meaning of Monday

Last night, at the end of a particularly painful day of adulting (I was legit on the couch nursing a sore back from overestimating my athleticism on the tee-ball field), a dear friend texted me a picture of her tired, lovely mug along with the message:

It’s time for a catch-up.

She told me a bit about the festival she was working on in Vegas.  I told her about my couch and the potential hazards of aging in the suburbs.  After the exchange, we both felt better about where we were.

This morning, as I blasted pop music and turned scrubbing the kitchen, living room, and bathroom floors into a one-woman dance party, I thought about another dear friend who is a ridiculous lindy hopper.   And when I needed a break, I scrolled Facebook and there in my feed was a sponsored ad for Lindy Hop classes with him.  I took it as a sign to actually make the scheduling work this go-round.

And late this afternoon, as I was getting Sunday supper to the table, another long text popped up.  Another dear friend.  Thanking me for a reference I was thrilled to give, and a generous offer to connect me with someone who I know I can learn a great deal from.

Too often, Sunday nights make me sad.  I think of them as endings.  Hard stops to staying in and letting go.

But, this Sunday, as I scroll through a series of weekend texts and messages from dear  friends – all of whom I came to love through work – I’m reminded that Mondays are full of magic.

 

 

 

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