I can’t remember last Tuesday or the Tuesday before or the Tuesday before that. It’s not that I have anything against Tuesdays. I mean really as far as days of the week go, they’re pretty benign; right on a par with cucumbers and unscented dish liquid. They are in fact the white jellybeans of the whole operation, take them or leave them.
Tuesdays are here to stay but it’s not just Tuesdays. I can’t remember any of the days because every day is the same. Every day I wake up, go downstairs and hunt around for my Nespresso pods because who needs toys when you can spend the better part of your morning taking the pods out of the boxes and putting them back in and taking them back out and putting them back in and I swear this kid would be really great working on an assembly line one day.
It’s cold (again). There’s more snow (again). I still look 10 years older than I am (again). It’s a long day being at home. One time I drove to Florida without stopping (like at all). You do a lot of crazy things in your twenties. There are days here, in the house, with the children that feel like driving to Florida; days the kids have an endless litany of demands. We’re just one squeaky wheel short of a full set of tires here. Good thing the kitchen’s closed.
Is it normal to regard your significant other like a houseplant? “Oh good, you made it through the night. You’re still alive and maybe look like you could use some water.” Passing plants in the night, in need of hydration and a little more sunshine.
I know we’re going to survive this. I know one day we’re going to look back on all of this and remember it like it was the longest day ever and definitely not a Tuesday.
Monday. There’s a reason they wrote songs about her, named movies after her, created many a meme in her honor. Monday. She’s the spicy pickle, the super scented sudsmaker of dish liquid, the funkiest jellybean in the bunch (think those gross Harry Potter flavors). One day we’ll look back and say this time, this era, this great quagmire of quarantine was just the longest Monday ever. I succumb to it. I surrender to you, Monday and all your attacks on my senses. You are not a cucumber. You are not benign. You are the era of boxed wine and Village Market cookies, of boxed hair dye that oddly enough covers everything but my greys, of comfort food and comfortable waistlines to account for that food, of watching so many episodes of “Gilmore Girls” that, oh my God, I feel like every Lauren Graham character ever… and Milo Ventimiglia–talk about wine that got better with age. Go Team Jess.
This is the Monday of all Mondays, when we look at each other like houseplants and our kids like the hungry groundhogs eating us out of home and the savings we don’t have, the days and long, long nights where we seriously consider things like getaway cars and remember romantic getaways? You know what feels pretty romantic right now? Hiding in the linen closet. By myself. How hard is it to get a fake ID these days and a bag full of cash? Could I pass for a Margery? Does she have a good backstory, an alibi, a pretty face and daft sort of Tuesday expression, the kind people are unlikely to question.
I have no answers, clearly. All I have is a box of wine, a handful of jelly beans (cause seriously, what goes better with pinot grigio) and a whole lot of Tuesdays I can’t remember.
One day this long Monday will be over and our groundhogs will turn back into children. One day we’ll magically shed our leaves, hardly recalling all those days we longed for sunshine and more hydration. I may or may not have a good alibi and bag full of cash. If they ask, I know nothing. You can call me Margery if we happen to pass on the street on some random Tuesday sometime in the future when this one long Monday is finally over; until then, I’ll be hiding in the linen closet.
Columnist Lesley Kirschner grew up quiet, in the woods and devoid of siblings so her hobbies quickly became reading, writing and talking to inanimate objects. She also spent a considerable amount of time doing voice-overs for her dolls and watching too much daytime television–channel 3, sometimes channel 8, if the weather was good and the antenna wasn’t acting up. She was in attendance at school, graduated from a very much not notable college not worth mentioning and was transplanted to Wilton with her husband, Ambler Farm‘s Farmer Jonathan and their (baby makes) three children almost a decade ago. Although she never quite found her calling in life, other than perhaps the doll voice-overs, which in hindsight were eerily convincing, she’s happy to try her hand at writing and is thankful to the support and community she found on Facebook’s Buy Nothing Wilton. Lesley realizes while this is all very exciting, she’s not winning a Pulitzer so she’ll wrap it up and be quiet. She’s had a lot of practice.