Monday

 
On days like these, every noise feels like an assault.  Monday morning and the garbage truck bangs, snorts and crashes down the street like a prehistoric machine.  I search for a little silence.  It isn't happening.  My husband wakes up early for a change and hovers around my chair, asking questions I already answered last night.  The tiny, shrilling ring of the fax machine is constantly in the background, like a mosquito, until I reach over and yank the cord out of the back.  Please be quiet.

I've barely been awake for thirty minutes before my cell phone starts buzzing and humming.  Questions already?  My boss must know everything under the sun, ASAP and FYI and ETA, btw.  Nothing can wait and why should it?  Not when the answers can be had, must be had, right now.  Text me. Email me.  Call me.  I MUST KNOW!

The more I search for silence on days like these, the more the noise finds me.  Get over yourself, it says, and deal with me.  Deal with us.  And answer these questions while you're at it. 

What time is my job?
Where are my keys?
Where is his lunchbox?
Is this the last week of school?
Are the dishes in the dishwasher clean?
Is the coffee fresh?
Did Robert go to work today?
Do you have breakfast bars?
Are you okay?
What's wrong?
Are you mad at me?
What time is dinner?
What's for dinner?
Did you take my dress to have it altered?
Where's that invoice?
Who are you talking to?
Seen my belt?
Do you have any ideas on how to increase business?

And the garbage truck, brakes squealing, is barreling down the road for what seems like the 100th time in an hour, picking up empty pizza boxes, bags of lawn trimmings, and all the other debris from people trying to cram all the fun and work they can into two days.  Before Monday.  Before the world comes crashing in again with all of its demands and noise and days like these.