As I pulled on the right leg of my black leggings this morning, around 6:00 am, leaning back in my chair, both feet lifting high into the air, as if gravity was going to lure these things on, the words of a childhood poem washed over me.
“Monday’s child is full of grace,” it whispered, as poems sometimes do.
Even though I know not the exact words of this nostalgic nursery rhyme, parts of it are lodged deep within me somewhere, and I thought,
“Wait, I don’t think Monday’s child is full of grace. It’s Tuesday’s child!”
But I’m telling you, Monday’s child needs it.
The words swirled and played in the dance of a new poem being born as I reached for my “Monday” dress, a free flowing knit, waist free, forgiving, stretchy, throw in the dryer, no-need-to-iron kind of dress. It wears on me whether I am a size 4 or a size 14. I hoover somewhere in between, depending on the day, the month, the season or the year.
Still – this dress embraces me and says, “It’s okay, I’m here for you, Shari.”
Topped off with my favorite black vest and knee high boots, Monday arrives in the comfort of my Friday jeans, even after a weekend of pizza, too many cookies and a little (okay, a lot) of laying around.
Gosh, I love a dress that can do that to a Monday.
Oh, the poem. It’s been marinating all morning. Here’s what I’ve got so far. . .
Monday’s dress is full of grace,
A thank you melts across her face,
None is there of shameful woes, or
Regrets of weekend diet foes.
With the stretch of lycra, loving and giving
Enabling her to go on with her living
A life that is so good and gay
A gift to savor on the morn of Monday.
Gosh – writing that just made me so happy! Poetry can do that, you know.