It’s a cliché to hate Mondays, and I hate to succumb to cliché. However, that didn’t make it easier for me to greet my Monday mornings with a sunny smile. Monday mornings don’t treat me kindly.

“Don’t think of Monday as the unhappy conclusion to your weekend,” Laura told me once. “Think of your weekend as a chance to prepare for the rest of the week. Get some rest. Do fun things. That way, come Monday, you’ll be ready to tackle your work.”

I could never get as much rest as I liked; I felt constantly exhausted. Problematically, when I stayed in bed too long during the weekend, it was even harder for me to take control of my day. When one day spiraled out of control, I had difficulty getting the motivation to get back on track.

Once I realized that, Laura and I got together, ate ice cream, and drew up a schedule/to-do list.

“Kill two birds with one stone,” Laura said, stirring her chocolate and strawberry ice cream together. “What do you need to do each weekend? How much time should it all take?”

I did like routines. I picked one manageable chore for each weekday, which left me with less recovery work to do on the weekends. I could tell immediately that would be a huge plus. Faced with a long list of weekend chores, I would be tempted to give up before I even began. A shorter list looked like more fun.

“It really would help you if you could try to go to bed at the same time each night and get up at the same time each morning,” Laura said. “I started doing that last year, and it worked really well. Even though the baby kept interrupting my sleep, I generally slept more soundly.”

We worked out some times so that I could get my much-needed 7 to 8 hours of sleep, but I wasn’t sure if that would work. I tended to get distracted in the evenings watching television, but I didn’t want to tell Laura that.

Laura scheduled lunch with me every other Sunday. She asked me to aim for at least three walks a week. “They don’t even have to be long walks,” she said.

“All right, fine,” I said.

Laura doodled some flowers and birds along the border of my schedule. Then she froze. “I am having such a good idea!” she said.

“Really?”

Laura put down her pen. “You know how I said you should have a hobby?”

“Yes.” I remembered. The cooking attempts had been less successful than I would have liked. Since the initial disaster, I’d tried again, more cautiously and with better success, but I didn’t think I’d ever consider it a relaxing pastime.

“You have a camera, right?”

I nodded. I’d bought a digital camera a couple years before to take with me on vacation.

“Going on a walk can be boring sometimes,” Laura said, “so why don’t you take your camera with you? You don’t have to take artsy shots of everything you see, but it could be a great way to chronicle your adventures.”

Only Laura would ever say something like “chronicle your adventures” when discussing a walk through a park and neighborhood. I took a thoughtful bite of my ice cream, feeling rather fond of her. “That sounds… interesting,” I said.

“How about this?” Laura said. “When you go on a walk, take your camera. Take ONE picture of something interesting you see. Then, when we get together on Sunday, you can show me your favorite. You know I like photographs.”

She did like photographs. Her house was filled with huge coffee-table books filled with pictures of beautiful scenery, frolicking animals, and exotic people and places.

“I’ll give it a shot,” I said, punning accidentally. Laura gave me a triumphant grin. She likes it when I make jokes like that.

We sat back and looked at my schedule. Even without the artistic addition of birds and flowers, it looked good. Weekday evenings, I had a couple chores to do, but nothing too time-consuming. On the weekends, I wouldn’t have to do much housework at all—just make sure everything was basically in order.

“Now all you need to do is find your camera,” Laura said. “I look forward to seeing what you’ve seen.”

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Reese is a fictional character who agreed to share her story on this blog. This was the 5th installment. Click to go back to the first – Cat Attack.

Laura liked to think of ways I could keep busy. I tried to tell her that I was busy enough, but she didn’t believe it. Being the mother of a young child had made her pitiless; she heeded no excuse.

“I know your job can be stressful,” she told me. “That’s exactly why you need to find something you can do when you get home that will take your mind off it. You need to have something to look forward to.”

“I look forward to getting home and not doing anything,” I said.

Laura ignored this. “You need a hobby,” she said. “A creative outlet!”

Well, I’m about as creative as a stick of butter. I left crayons behind years ago and never (willingly) moved on to anything else. My old art projects from school looked like they’d been cruelly bludgeoned with blunt weapons. My mother had mistaken my painting of a cat and mouse for a sunrise over Hong Kong.

When I explained to Laura that I was incapable of artistic achievement, she cried, “Cooking! Try cooking!”

“I don’t know…”

“There are lots of great recipes online,” Laura said. “You could come home from work and eat delicious food you’d made yourself.”

Sounded good. In theory.

Laura kept telling me that cooking was straightforward. I could find a recipe that fit my comfort zone. All I’d need to do was follow the directions, wait while it cooked, and then enjoy my culinary masterpiece.

Eventually she convinced me that it was worth a shot.

I worked as a Volunteer Coordinator at a large nonprofit in town. Believe me, volunteers need a lot of coordinating. I tried to look on the bright side: they really helped us out. But sometimes their hapless confusion made me want to hide in the storage closet and cry.

Figures that I’d had a crummy day at work when I decided to launch into my creative hobby of cookery. By the time I dragged myself home, I wanted to curl up on the sofa and watch a movie—any movie!—or, even better, sleep. But Laura had brought me some zucchini so I could attempt a rudimentary vegetable stir-fry.

By some superhuman effort of will, I lined up my ingredients on the counter. Laura had visited the day before and helped me chop some of the different vegetables I’d need. Others, like the bamboo sprouts, came in a tin.

I carefully reread my recipe and started heating up my frying pan. (No wok for me. I’d never done this before.)

Soon, the olive oil was spitting and hissing in the pan. I started tossing vegetables in, enjoying the sizzling sound they made. I opened the tin of bamboo sprouts and tried to drain the liquid, but some of the sprouts fell into the sink. Great. Fantastic.

Everything rapidly grew worse.

I was scooping the sprouts out of the sink when I smelled an ominous smell. I turned around and saw that the oil was burning in the pan, actually smoking. The vegetables looked raw on one side but were blackening on the other. I’d let the pan get way too hot before I started cooking.

I dropped the bamboo sprouts and tried to do damage control, but the worst had already happened. Most of the vegetables were inedible, and I couldn’t stir-fry anything in the ruined oil.

I telephoned Laura in tears. “It all burned. It started burning the second I turned my back!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Reese!” Laura said. “Are you all right?”

I made a pitiful strangled noise. I had destroyed all the vegetables and possibly the frying pan. I was a complete cooking failure, and I’d let Laura down.

“Reese, if you don’t have anything for dinner, you should come over and eat with me and George,” Laura said. “Do you feel up to that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I was pretty sure I had a microwave dinner in the fridge somewhere, and I didn’t want my friend or her husband seeing me in all my ridiculous failure. I was crying over food, for goodness’ sake. I probably looked a fright.

“Come on, Reese,” Laura said. “Let me make it up to you. I was the one who convinced you to try, after all. We should have started with something more reasonable.”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“I’m making spaghetti,” Laura said.

My favorite.

“Do you mind if I come over?” I asked. “Is it really all right?”

“Of course it is, Reese. We love to have you over.”

I went to find my car key.

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Reese is a fictional character who agreed to share her story on this blog. This was the 4th installment. Click to go back to the first – Cat Attack.

Sometimes, in movies, the hero is sneaking around some forest or office building (or something) when he pauses and sniffs the air. “I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s quiet… too quiet.”

My Sunday was like that. It would have made any action hero nervous.

First of all, I slept way too long. I usually tried to get up around 7 on weekdays, since it took me much longer to get properly awake and presentable than it took me to get to work. On the weekends, I tried not to let things slide too much. I knew that if I stayed in bed too long, the rest of my schedule would fall apart. I’d lose the will to get anything done.

But Bailey had woken me up so early the day before. I figured I needed a break. So I barricaded and cat-proofed my bedroom before tumbling into bed on Saturday night.

The plan worked.

In the morning, Bailey couldn’t get to me. Every time I looked at the clock, an hour or so had passed, and I still didn’t want to get up. Not only was I cozy in my bed, but I couldn’t think of any reason to leave it.

And then it was nearly the afternoon.

Once I had hauled myself out to my kitchen, I didn’t know where to start. Food? I didn’t feel hungry. Housework? I didn’t want to move. Exercise? Nope. Didn’t want to move even for that. Anyway, Laura had dragged me all over the park the day before.

Bailey prowled over and wrapped her front paws around my ankles. She knew what she wanted.

“Sorry, Bailey,” I mumbled, searching through a cupboard for her food. I felt like a crummy cat-owner. Poor Bailey trusted me, needed me, and I repaid her with—

“Ew! Gross!” Bailey had left me a present: half a cricket lay on the countertop.

The sight of that dismembered insect made me want to go back to bed. And pull the covers over my head and never come out. Action heroes don’t understand that there is no such thing as ‘too quiet.’ I was not in the mood for dealing with the casualties inflicted by my animal companion.

I fed Bailey anyway.

I didn’t want to touch the cricket, not even with a paper towel, so I wandered into my little living room, slumped on the sofa, and turned on the TV. For several hours, bright and cheerful people moved across my screen, advertising things. Grimy, beleaguered people fought crime in the intervals. I didn’t really process much of it.

You should go outside and get some sunlight, I thought, but I didn’t want to stand up.

You’re wasting your whole day.

That was silly. I’d needed the sleep, obviously, or I wouldn’t have slept so much.

Yes, but now that you’re up, you should get some sun. Remember? It helps you feel better. Supposedly.

It took a long time, but eventually I gave up. I went in search of my dressing gown, wrapped it around myself, and stepped outside, blinking in the light. I quickly sat down on the step before I could trip over some unseen obstacle and break my neck.

The sun was… quite warm. There was a breeze. I liked that. It felt like gentle fingers through my longish brown hair. I kept my eyes closed against the sun’s brightness.

A bicycle bell trilled. I opened my eyes and saw a child sailing past, wearing a pink helmet.

“Good afternoon!” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, belatedly.

I closed my eyes again, letting the sun warm me all the way through.

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Reese is a fictional character who agreed to share her story on this blog. This was the third installment. Click to go back to the first – Cat Attack.

I’ve known Laura Becker ever since we met in college years ago (too many years—I don’t like to count them). Marriage and a baby didn’t change her much, although they had given her new things to talk about. But Laura is the kind of person who feels comfortable talking about anything, which sometimes makes me nervous. I never know what she’s going to say next.

Also, Laura believes in mild physical exertion (i.e. healthful walks in the park).

“Good afternoon, Reese!” she said, appearing in my doorway with her baby (Marybeth) in a stroller. “Ready for a walk?”

“Does it matter if I’m ready?” I asked. One time, I had refused to get out of my bed when Laura had decided to walk with me. She had pulled the blankets off, bundled me into my clothes, and taken me outside, without being even slightly mean about it. And, just as she had said, I had felt better—although at first I’d wanted to strangle her.

“I’m willing to wait,” Laura said.

I didn’t have to keep her waiting for very long, but was soon ready to leave my little house with appropriate footgear on my feet and a bottle of water in one hand. Laura was adjusting her ponytail, eyeing her reflection in my kitchen window.

“Are you ready?”

“Yeah.” I didn’t sound enthused, because I wasn’t. Some days I really hate leaving my house.

Undeterred, Laura started walking, trundling Marybeth down the sidewalk ahead of her.

“How was your morning?”

It took a little prodding on her part, but I told her what I’d been doing: how Bailey had woken me up at an insanely early hour, how I’d tidied my house and worked on my budget (a little bit), and how I was beginning to run out of groceries. Laura listened to all this with apparent interest.

Then she told me about Marybeth. This always takes some time, because, in Laura’s mind, everything Marybeth does is worthy of discussion and praise. Much to Laura’s delight, Marybeth was apparently starting to gurgle the semblances of words.

When we reached the park, Laura stopped the stroller and went around it to peer at Marybeth. She gurgled at Marybeth. Marybeth gurgled back.

“See! She said mama,” Laura said proudly.

I hadn’t heard anything like that, but I decided not to mention that failure on my part. After all, sometimes I think I know what Bailey is saying, and Bailey is my cat.

I knew Laura wished I would find a man and settle down and have babies—“so we can relate more,” she’d said once—but that didn’t look too likely at the moment.

My boyfriend, Zach, and I hadn’t made many commitments of any kind. We’d only been kinda-dating for a few months, and he was gone a lot on business trips. All the time, really. I found his rushed emails to me endearing, but… not nearly enough.

I sighed.

“Reese? Are you OK?” Laura asked, glancing up from her darling baby.

I shrugged. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

There was no reason to tell her the truth—not today, at least—that seeing her and her baby made me feel confused and uncertain. (What the heck was I doing with my life?) I wished we could jump back five years, when we’d both been younger and unattached and able to do anything we wanted (we thought).

I wished she’d leave Marybeth at home sometimes, so I could at least pretend. I was beginning to realize that the very sight of Marybeth could trigger something—a sadness?—I didn’t even understand.

I blinked, grinding the palm of my hand against my weary eyes. I was still tired. That was it. I was just tired.

Laura gave me a quick half-hug. Maybe she understood.

“Come on, precious,” she said. “It’s a beautiful afternoon. Let’s enjoy it.”

We started walking again.

Saturday morning began, as many of my mornings do, with Bailey breaking into my bedroom and frolicking all over my bed. I love cats. I love Bailey. The problem is, sometimes I forget why. I think cats should be able to wait for their breakfast until I’m ready to face the day. Bailey thinks I exist to bring her food whenever she wants it, no matter how I’m feeling, no matter how much sleep I did or didn’t get.

Bailey wanted breakfast. She padded across my quilt, looking for my face to lick. It’s funny how cats look light and graceful until they’re tromping all over you. Stupid cats.

I dragged my blankets over my head. I didn’t want to see what time it was. Bailey meowed insistently several times, coldly disregarding my groans of hapless protest.

I decided to play dead. Lay very, very still and hoped she would go away. No luck.

I opened one eye. 6:07 AM. Ridiculously early. Insanely early. I vaguely remembered crawling to bed at 2:45 AM. Three of hours of sleep? Good grief.

I clamped my eyes shut, but when I tried to fall asleep again, all sorts of thoughts came crowding into my brain. How could I function on three hours of sleep? I had so much to do. For one thing, it was Saturday, my cleaning day. Between the two of us, Bailey and I had managed to clutter the house to no end throughout the week. I didn’t think I’d washed dishes for… a while. Ugh.

I needed to go shopping as well—or could I leave that until Sunday? (Did I have milk? Eggs? Vegetables of any kind? Was I likely to contract scurvy?) And I probably needed to think about money. Contrary to my halfhearted belief, it did not accumulate when I left it to its own devices.

My friend, Laura, had threatened to come over some time in the afternoon, which meant that the house needed to be presentable by then. I needed to be presentable. Laura worried about me. Said I spent too much time by myself, just me and my plants and my cat. I hated worrying her, but there was no way I could act as persistently perky as her.

Of course, as soon as I started thinking about all that, I could feel myself getting tense, so tense my heart started to race. There was no way I was ever falling asleep again. Better to get up, grin, and bear it. With this early start, I was sure to have all manner of success.

In theory.

I lurched to sit up, blinking blearily at the wall. OK. Just swing your legs out of bed. You can do it.

Nope. I flopped back down. This wasn’t going to work.

Bailey thrust her head into my face. She was a beautiful tabby, long-furred, green-eyed, her coat a patchwork of brown, gold, and black. Now that I was clearly awake, she was very pleased with herself.

“Meow?”

I groaned.

“Meow?”

She started licking my face. The cat always wins.

It took forever, but at last I got up. I wobbled to the kitchen, put on the kettle, and filled the little cat dish with food. Bailey rejoiced. I scowled at her.

I found some Earl Grey tea and soaked a sachet in hot water. The smell of bergamot filled the air. It was such a cozy smell that I could feel myself relaxing, despite myself. Caffeine sometimes turns out to be a mistake later in the day, but I tell myself that I need it in the morning.

Surveying the dispiriting heap of dishes in the sink, I started to make plans. Breakfast first, then the dishes (all of them!), then shopping, then money… maybe. Then Laura would insist on taking me to the park for fresh air. We both knew sunlight and exercise was good for me.

Bailey pounced at my ankles.

“Sorry, love,” I said. “You may have won this round, but you’re going to have to wait for lunch.”

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Reese is a fictional character who agreed to share her story on this blog. This was the first installment.