Monday's Child
Author: Unknown
Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child must work for a living,
But the child that's born on the Sabbath day,
Is fair and wise and good and gay.
I don’t mind Monday as I know others do. Maybe that’s because I was born on a Monday. Swimming lessons used to be on Monday evenings and I used to love going. Dad and I would get home around 6pm which would leave us just enough time to have Lipton’s Alligator chicken noodle soup and bus up to the community centre. Because I loved school so much, Monday was a return to the passion and stimulation I couldn’t extract from the movies that baby-sat me on weekends.
According to the poem, Monday’s child is fair of face. While that may be true, if I could rewrite the poem to reflect my personality, I would start it Monday’s child is full of rage. I am. The smallest things set me off: they run the gamut from the irregularity of public transit to crowds, Facebook, negligent motorists and cyclists, people who don’t tip and s-l-o-w walkers.
I do a good job of keeping my rage under wraps most of the time but there are days when I just want to unleash the beast. I am not violent: my words are my weapons but on days the rage bubbles to the surface, I thank the stars I live alone with no one and nothing to kick or punch. However, I don’t think letting the rage simmer is healthy. I recently watched The Brood, a classic tale about psychological experimentation and the manifestation of rage. In this film, an angry woman, Nola, spawns featureless albino rage babies to wreak havoc on those people who have wronged her at some point. Included on Nola’s hit list are her mother, her estranged husband and her daughter. I identify with the distressed woman and would, if I could, spawn my own loving brood I could then lick clean of amniotic fluid (see film’s climax) and release into the world. Unfortunately, this is too fantastical to accomplish. Alas, I need an outlet.
The universe has recently sent a few options my way. Several of my new cyberpals, submissive men who want to be dominated, have messaged me on a dating website asking to be punished and humiliated. This outlet for my rage, though expertly timed and painfully convenient, seems a bit like a monkey’s paw. My fear is that once roused, my Ms. Hyde will then take over my consciousness and I will be doomed to skulk the earth as a whip-wielding thrasher hell bent on punishing these soft, psychologically damaged puppy dog men.
My compassion for the meek and my disdain for the arrogant and insufferable have prevented me from taking anyone up on their generous offers thus far. I’m not sure how long I can hold out. I do so love the look, feel and smell of leather and it, in turn, becomes me.
