Dear Wednesday...

Dear Wednesday,

Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I know you've got a silly nickname, but I try not to call you that, so please let's be friends. I won't hold it against you that today started with a headache and I haven't managed to stop being a whine-filled ball of crank since. Please don't hold it against me that I like other days better than you. I mean, Monday is the black sheep and Tuesday is sort of the underdog. Thursdays are generally just overlooked on the way to Friday, and everyone knows that Saturday and Sunday are the pretty girls we all wanted to be in grades K through 12. Anyway, we're here now, and I'd really like to enjoy you. It's Date Night tonight after all, and that's a really big selling point. So, if you stop the random acts of malfeasance, I'll be sure to tell everybody that you're really the best day of the workweek. Please consider my offer.
Respectfully, Crabby Baby

Dear PT Cruiser,

You know that I've dreamed of having you since your debut so many years ago, right? Other than a 1998 Red VW Jetta, there is no car I've wanted more (that I had a reasonable chance of obtaining in my lifetime, because it would be a disservice to compare you to any Aston Martin). My brother may think you're ugly, but I don't. I think you're cute and spunky and I've taken really good care of you these past two years. So please stop the diva-like behavior. You do not need constant attention from the guys at CarMax. You're better than that! You've got more self-respect than that! You go for your regular oil changes and maintenance. Igot you detailed just a few months ago. You're not neglected! So please stop blowing random fuses and flashing your "check engine" light at me. Is this because I chose to drive the Rondo to work last week? Are you feeling jealous? Listen, it's not you, it's me! I just needed the extra gas mileage. I love your Turbo GT whatever. Your leather seats get so delightfully scorchy in the Texas heat. I adore the bliding rays of sunshine from your sunroof. I've even completely adapted to the window controls being on the center of the dash instead of by the actual windows. Please, can't we put this petty repair business behind us? Sincerely, The One Who Buys The Gas

Dear Aaron Sorkin,

You're really good at writing. Geez, what a crappy sentence. Ok, it's true and I don't have a more eloquent way of saying it. I got hooked on West Wing and I don't even like politics. Then again, it wasn't really a show about politics any more than Studio 60 was a show about a tv show. As my Improv instructors have drilled into my brain, all good stories are about relationships. Anyway, because of you, I've decided to watch everything that Bradley Whitford has ever been in, except for whatever show has him in that ridiculous mustache. I can't do that one. Anyway, thank you for ending Studio 60 in a highly satisfactory manner. There is nothing worse* than getting to the end of a series to find a bunch of cliffhangers, un-answered questions and what-ifs, and yes, I'm looking at you, Joss Whedon! So, Mr. Sorkin, thanks for stealing many of my couch-time hours to fill my head with good stories of real-feeling relationships between characters that feel like people I know. (I'm such a Donna sometimes, right? I know!)
With affection, The Holder of The Remote Control

Dear Treadmill,

We need to have a talk. I know that we're both new to this relationship, but I'm finding that I'm getting increasingly frustrated. I've tried to talk it out with you, but you just don't seem capable of change. The problem really isn't me, it's you. You're too loose. And I'm not talking about the fact that you will give a free ride to every cat, dog, or husband who happens to saunter on by. No, the real issue here is your belt tension. I got into this relationship looking for something challenging, but familiar. Your incline is a little steep, but I can deal with that. What I can't deal with is the fact that you seem incapable of only two speeds: Run For Your Life, Zombies and Hip Replacement Rehab. As you may have noticed, I don't run, so that's right out. Also, I may be a former president of the Universal Convention of Awkwardness but I can manage to walk at a smooth and steady pace, so that leaves us at an impass. Don't tell me that because you are a "manual" treadmill the speed is my responsibility. I wish that were the case. If that were true, we wouldn't be having this conversation. No, you need to get your belt tightened so I can tighten mine. Relationships are about compromise, so why don't you just give me what I want so we can both be happy?
With Respect, Trying To Be Less Blubbery

Delayed Monday Syndrome

Delayed Monday Syndrome© (DMS) is a real thing that I just made up* as a way to explain those crazy weeks when Monday goes swimmingly, only to have another day crash down around your ears in a spectacle of mediocrity.

DMS usually occurs on a Tuesday, but has been known to make random appearances all throughout the week, so don't think that making it past the hump grants any kind of immunity. It does not. Your day can go from "marginally crappy" to "unredeemable without enlarging the broadness of your backside" in less than 5 minutes.

Tuesdays are almost always harder than Mondays to begin with. They're not Monday, so you don't really have a reason for all the dragging, sluggish feelings--sort of like Monday leftovers. And it's not Wednesday, so you don't have that happy, "hump day," half-way to the weekend feeling. It's the forgotten middle child of the early week. And that's a normal Tuesday, so you can imagine how much worse DMS makes things.

An example:


Petunia's** day started with a feeling like this: lazy, worthless woman who can't get out of bed and in to work at a decent hour, thus depriving her hardworking husband of the comfort of a home cooked meal. This is a classic symptom of DMS--the nagging feeling that you left your awesome in your other pants, right next to that tube of chapstick that you ran through the wash resulting in a slightly greasy pair of pants with a suspicious stain you don't want to attempt to explain anyway. However, we all know that one symptom doesn't lead to a diagnosis (otherwise, we'd all be ADHD/OCD/sociopaths with tumors and endocrine disorders... at least, I certainly would be).

Another symptom of DMS is the inability to process minor changes with any semblance of grace or skill, which leads to a heightened emotional awareness that borders on paranoia, with the fervent belief that everyone can see all the flaws of your life like one of those ill-advised lighted make-up mirrors that can turn a confident 29 year old woman into a quivering mess thinking she's only one step removed from the Crypt Keeper and no amount of moisturizer with SPF and eye cream will make her pass for a normal, attractive female... not that I would know anything about that.

But back to Petunia. Less than an hour later, after an uneventful commute where she felt persecuted by the drivers who failed to grasp the concept of merging traffic (it's like a zipper people!!), a frantic search through the crud in her purse looking for the key card to the office so she could climb to the 4th floor only to realize she forgot to take her multi-vitamin and was certain that osteoporosis and cancer were at that very minute creeping into her system, and a phone call that should have been benign, but instead left her feeling like this: useless woman who doesn't understand the basic concepts of modern commerce, thus failing her husband who asked her for help in the first place, because he was busy solving important problems for people with a nationally recognized brand name and thus bringing home ye-olde-bacon so she should stop being a nagging harpy and do things the right way the first time and fix the problems (none of which her darling husband ever said, she just read between the lines--i.e. made stuff up).

A nutritious lunch is passed over in favor of a half-stale bag of mini-marshmallows, where she shamelessly disregards the warning to eat them one at a time.

Sadly, there is as yet no cure for DMS. Hopefully a heightened awareness of the crippling disorder can help suffers identify the early warning signs and ensure that enough butt-broadening substances are near at hand to reduce the likelihood of complete implosion due to the high-pressure suckage at the nougaty center of the DMS day.

In extreme cases, DMS may develop into the more serious PMS (Prolonged Monday Syndrome©) which requires chocolate, salty foods, a tear-jerker movie, an electric blanket, and hopefully some furry beast to snuggle with.

*I even googled it to be sure.

**Names have been changed to protect the identities of the poor, bewildered sufferers of this tragic affliction


Disclaimer: DMS is often confused with the Sneaky Hate Spiral, which Allie Brosh at Hyperbole and a Half was so kind as to inform the world about. Without her research, DMS may have gone undiscovered so trot on over there and tell her how thankful we all are.