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I’m not good at Mondays.

Every week it’s a struggle to adjust from the languid pace of the weekend to the defined routine of the working day. My heart sinks when my alarm first goes off on a Monday morning and I drag myself out of bed after far too little sleep.

It’s not the thought of going to work that’s the problem. Mondays are often busy, so the day itself tends to fly by.

The problem is that I just don’t seem to function as well on Mondays. I’m not as switched on, the synapses aren’t quite firing yet. I stumble through my morning routine and just manage to make myself look vaguely presentable. At work I ask stupid questions and forget how to do basic things. I’m usually just grateful if I make it to the end of the day without having spilled or dropped anything, or having injured myself in any way, because I swear my clumsiness intensifies on Mondays. Today I narrowly avoided falling off a stepladder and dropping a heavy box on myself.

One of these days I might master the art of Mondaying and stop wishing every weekend could be three days long, but for now I’ll just keep blundering along, one awkward moment at a time.

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