How many altos got a solo career like hers until Adele?
Today I’m singing one of her classic tunes, with a slight word change:
Talkin’ to myself and feeling old.
Sometimes I’d like to quit.
Nothing ever seems to fit.
Hangin’ around, nothing to do but frown.
Sunny days and Mondays always get me down.
You’re probably thinking, “Why so sullen on such a beautiful day?”
I know I should be basking in the glory of this gorgeous, sunny, green-air day where I can breath without thinking I should have been a smoker because at least I’d be skinnier if I was going to die young of lung disease anyway.
I should be out in the glory of this day snowshoeing, skiing, learning how to luge, or at least taking down my Christmas decorations, finally.
But I can’t.
It’s rare, but I’m choosing to be responsible today.
My indoor “To Do” list is waaaaaay too long to go out and enjoy this lovely day and not be swallowed whole by the Guilt Monster.
It’s not like me to be so consciously sensible, but I can only forget to empty the garbage cans and therefore miss garbage Monday three weeks in a row before I start to feel like my household and its inhabitants might be slightly suffering.
Like my Dad used to always say, “If you’re going to dance all night, you’ve got to pay the fiddler.”
Time to cut a check to Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band then, because I’ve been hitchkicking the nights away.
Since Christmas, we’ve been coasting by with keeping the main areas of the house generally straightened and livable, but the dark corners are reaching black hole proportions and, despite what my mother-in-law might think, I do have a filth threshold.
My house has taken on that bleak midwinter stuffy stench and it’s time to let the dust bunnies and spiders know their winter spa retreat is over.
So I’m pulling down the blinds to block out the cheery sunshine that mocks me, and I’m cranking up Karen’s melancholy melodies on my iPod to help me trudge through the sludge of a freakin’ gorgeous Monday.