I hate Mondays.
Two nights ago, I came home at around 10:30 in the evening hungry and tired after being lost in Hanoi.
It was my first time to try riding a bus after my three months of stay here in Vietnam. What was supposed to be a desperate attempt on my part to save money turned out to be more expensive, stressful, if not demoralizing.
I took bus number 26 from Cau Giay, where I have my part time job, to Kim Lien but ended up in Bach Mai, a couple of kilometers away from where I should have alighted. Because of that, I had to take a xe om, a motorbike taxi popular in any Vietnamese city. The driver who originally agreed to be paid 20,000 dongs raised his voice and gave me a threatening look right after I gave him the money when I reached my house in Xa Dan street, and asked for more because according to him ‘he never thought that my house is that far’.
Tired and hungry, I was not in the mood to argue and put my language skills to practice; I succumbed and gave him another 10,000 dong. He smiled at me after, a smile one can only associate to that of a dog.
I’ve always hated Monday. Not because that incident happened on a Monday, but because it is the only day of the week that “forces” itself on me. Its arrogance appears overbearing that it overshadows my dislike for Sunday or Wednesday.
For Monday, hate is too tame a word to describe how I feel towards it, in fact, hatred is better. Monday doesn’t fail to remind me that I have to start the week, but hey, I do not need something to remind me this fact for the tasks ahead are already daunting. Monday is the mother of redundancies and hyperbole. It constantly repeats itself, emphasizes itself, and calls attention for itself.
Monday and I never had a good relationship even before. I am a Thursday child, and according to that book I read when I was twelve, a child rearing book published in the US during the 50s, children born in Thursday are always at odds with those born in Monday. A flimsy, unscientific book, I must say, but it justified my hatred for that day of the week.
I dreaded the start of classes on a Monday. It was our Physical Education day, and how I dislike P.E., from my first grade until my sixth up until my fourth year in high school. And I remember we always had to be weighed on a Monday, and it caused me so much anxiety to see my classmate peering on the weighing scale and seeing that I was too light for my height. During those times conformity is the name of the game, even when it comes to weight. I must weigh as much as my friends for us to be team mates in our after-class baseball games.
I broke up with my first three relationships on a Monday.
I give lousy arguments in any of my classes during college on a Monday.
And I get lost whenever it’s Monday.
I shall never get over this feeling of detestation toward Monday. Not now when it’s good at nothing but be the only day when so many unfortunate events happened in my life.