“Oh Monday, you saucy whore, why must you be so miserable?” This is my first thought most Monday mornings. And today was no exception. I stretch, groan, roll over, and smack my alarm clock across the room. Bastard is in cahoots with Monday. They are wily, formidable opponents, and I do not like them at all.
But I’m up! I’m showered! I’m moving! I take a cold shower, just to spite Monday. Monday wants to play rough, I can play rough. I’m much harder than Monday could ever aspire to be. I’m dressed, I’m packed, I’m out the door. Down a rickety elevator and onto the street, Monday, you got nothing on…mother fucker!
It’s pouring. Absolutely monsooning. Well played Monday. I see what you did there.
Back up the rickety elevator and into my apartment, quiet enough not to wake up my sleeping roommate and his boyfriend, because its still early and I’m a nice guy. I grab my poncho and curse myself for the thirty eight thousandth time for not owning a real raincoat. I live in Portland, Oregon, and I don’t own a real raincoat, I am a moron.
Down the stairs this time, because its only four flights and I’m feeling feisty. Crash onto the street, into the rain, on a mission. Put the hood up and hunker down, its cool, but not really cold, its fresh and I can dig this, even on a Monday. A truck barrels past, splashing water at me. I jump, manage to avoid most of it, but it still catches my boots. Really Monday, was that absolutely necessary? Jerk. I turn to cut through the alley, the same alley I cut through everyday on my way to Floyd’s and stop.
I cannot believe my eyes.
There are three men dancing. Sort of. There is a bum wearing a pink suit and a floppy hat with a small battery operated boom box, blasting some sort of drum beat at full volume. Tribal jungle drums in the rain. And this man is dancing and jumping and spinning in the alley. There are two dreadlocked hippie men jumping around beside him. Legs kicking, arms flailing, faces to the sky. All of this in an intense Portland downpour. What. The. Fuck.
They notice me standing there and stop their dancing. I’m staring, not sure what to make of it. I need to cross that alley, but it seems rude to interrupt such a display of pure emotion. These are clearly True-Believers. And then one of the dreadlocked hippie men smiles and waves me in. And it seems like the best idea I’ve ever heard.
So I join. I dance and I spin and I smile. I get soaked. I stomp in puddles and I laugh. This is exactly what I need. This is what we all need. My boots are wet, my jeans are wet, my hair is a wet, matted mess. My smile is uncontrollable. We notice a group of tourists at the far end of the alley holding pink Voodoo Donuts boxes, staring. They have no idea what to think of four grown men, dancing in the rain to a tribal beat. We smile and gesture them in. They look away and hurry to cross the street. We laugh, they have no idea how much fun they’re missing.
Thanks Monday, maybe you’re not so bad after all.