the last one

"Nothing could make Sunday night better, not even that little Tinkerbell at six o'clock, since I knew Monday was coming."

That was the gist of something John Hiatt said from the Pageant stage on a Monday night a few weeks back. I can't say that I relate to the memories of Ed Sullivan that followed though I did enjoy the eventual song--Hiatt still rocks, though he's getting to be an old guy--but oh, do I share his sentiment about those dread-ful nights. Tonight closed out my last 48-hour weekend; starting a week from today, the work-week will begin somewhere about Sunday at 3 o'clock. Or maybe 5. Definitely 7. But Sunday, that's my point. Despite the opinion of my chastising friend Mary who seems to mistakenly believe I don't appreciate my time, I'm not whining any more than anybody else who has to get up and get going on Mondays, but I sure have enjoyed the summer opt-out, as quickly as it went. To make it into the wee hours of Monday without that knot between my shoulders is indeed a luxury. For the coming thirty-six weeks I'll be scrambling with my homework more intently than any student. Or at least that is the more-or-less intention. I have more in common with the kids than I probably should. The week after next, for example, I'm screwed, because I haven't done a damn thing for months, but unlike the first day of the week from late August through May, the meantime has been a pleasure.