Did you ever leave for work feeling perfectly normal yet somehow return home an ogre and have absolutely no reasonable explanation for it? You shut your office door at quitting time, humming happily to yourself and snapping cheerful two-finger salutes to the sparrows singing gaily ’round your head while butterflies land and flutter on your shoulders. Then you make your way home amidst a seemingly inconsequential commute.
Once you arrive at home sweet home, though, suddenly you find yourself a miserable beast. You’re incapable of pleasant conversation and your vocabulary has been reduced to nothing but irritated grunts and short-tempered barks. The dismissive wave of a hand is your only available gesture. Well, besides gestures you don’t want to explain to the kids just yet. Luckily, you’re smart enough to keep those to yourself.
This happens to me sometimes, for no good reason. It’s typically brief, and once I recognize that I’m demonstrating behavior consistent with that of a fairy-tale monster, the illusion evaporates faster than the Wizard of Oz and I go back to whistling snappy tunes and thinking about rainbows.
It’s still very strange, though, that somehow in the middle of a perfectly normal evening, I apparently become the Incredible Hulk for no good reason. Well, minus the whole turning radioactive green and shredding my clothes in a sweet transformation sequence thing. I suppose I should be happy about that; nobody really wants to be green. Still, if I’m going to act like an irrational jerkface for an hour or two, it’d be nice to maybe have some rippling musculature to go with it.
For whatever reason, I find this sort of thing tends to happen most often on Mondays, and I have no idea why. The temptation, of course, is to lay the blame completely at the feet of Monday. Mondays already suffer from a severe image problem and as a result are already commonly viewed with suspicion, if not outright hostility.
As I’ve said before, though, I don’t play that game. Monday is just the next day in my book, and I refuse to drag myself out of bed on the day after Sunday with a sour predisposition. Yes, the weekend is over, and yes, weekend days do tend to be more fun than the other days of the week. Still, I’m not automatically writing off one out of every seven days just because it’s the furthest one away from Friday.
So, no, my suddenly transformation into a mountain troll is not just because it’s Monday.
Luckily, by now, my ogre-like attitude has, as usual, drifted away like snowflakes on the chill winter wind. There’s a pretty good chance I may never figure out what makes me lose my otherwise bright and sunny outlook on life.
Then again, I’d be willing to bet that if you charted my seemingly random hostility against the frequency with which I have to perform Smitty-type maintenance within ten minutes of walking in the door, you might be on the track to a little causation.
At least, that’s my theory. Otherwise, I’d avoid me if my eyes suddenly turn green.