Monday morning. Hello, no coffee beans. Hello, flat tire. There you are, apparently unrepairable water leak. How you doing, things the dogs tore up? Hey, there you go, trash truck four hours early—without my trash. Sink full of dishes, how the hell are you? Have you met couch covered in three loads of laundry? Great.
Oh, playroom covered in toys and snack smears, you’re up early. Pile of work that I ignored all weekend, have you put on weight?
Monday morning. You’re a son of a bitch.
It was implied, by someone I consider a friend, that I am not real, nor do I, and I quote, “know any real people.” This because I believe “folksy” is not a quality one should consider positive in the potential leader of the free world. I don’t know if that’s more of an insult to me or to everyone I have ever met.
I feel pretty real. I’m surrounded by Monday morning, drinking six shots of espresso with a little bit of milk and trying to make ends meet. There is an old dog at my feet that is so full of gas my eyes are watering. That’s real. Isn’t it?
If I want folksy I’ll go to the Cracker Barrel, but not really, because fried food will kill you. Is the greeter at Wal-Mart any more real than the Barista at Starbucks just because they’re more likely to say y’all and use some cliché about Mondays? I don’t need cheap shoes, censorship, or shotgun shells, but I am out of coffee beans. That’s real. Isn’t it?
If I teach my boys to enjoy hiking instead of hunting, or reading instead of racing, does that make them any less American?
There are things I disagree with, but I would never suggest they aren’t real. In fact, they are more real than I am comfortable with. Come tomorrow Monday will be but a memory, but my fears will be as real as ever.
I will face them as they come, and I will start with the dishes.