Normally, I would totally agree with the theory of classical conditioning, the idea that a species will begin to behave in a certain way when this behavior is linked with some outside stimuli, placed to reinforce the desired effect. I've read the studies, been fascinated by the inevitable predictability of living organisms. Yes, it all sounds well and very good, but then I come along, an apparent test dummy, and Monday comes along, a completely cyclic stimulus, and the convergence of the twain is PAINFUL EVERY TIME.
Why don't I find myself lulled to sleep Sunday nights by the quiet biological nudges that whisper, "Tomorrow is coming early..." Because of course, I know it is, you know. I stay up instead, doing something relatively meaningless such as chatting online (not that the friends are meaningless, but you get the idea), surfing the internet for random information I don't really need and will not remember at all in the morning because I will be too tired to, or the worst, twisting and turning to stare in the mirror at blackheads, both real and imagined, on my nose. Finally, feeling very self-disciplined, I turn out my bedside lamp, about two hours too late.
Morning for me basically feels like the word "Noooooooo..." prolonged for a very long time. I'm not quite sure how it continues to shock and amaze me with its presence, hence my mistrust of myself as a reliable case study. When the alarm sounds, in the deepest, darkest corners of my psyche, I know it must be a mistake. Unless someone made time travel possible over night, there is no way five hours could have passed that quickly. My alarm usually has to ring twice for me to connect reality with reason-yes, it is morning, yes I must get up, yes my mouth does feel and taste like a real clam, and yes, oh yes, it is Monday. This particular realization is the one piece to the puzzle I never confuse.
Probably two of the things I fear most about Monday mornings are that 1) I will accidently pursue my deeply warped psychological arguments that it is not in fact Monday morning, that it isn't the morning of any day, and that it can't be Monday morning anyway because Mondays have been abolished due to the 217th Amendment recently transacted in my brain. And also 2) I will not be able to find my Get-the-Red-Out Eyedrops and will be forced to wear two red badges of cowardice all day. Minutes of panic when I think either outcome has occurred usually results in a momentary pause of my heart-beat, followed by the words, "This cannot be happening to me" trailing through my mind like an off-course aerial advertisement. I will usually hear, "This cannot be happening to me," out loud as well, which totally weirds me out until I grasp that I am saying it. Over and over and...
The irony of it all is that I am a high school teacher. Now this might seem almost illegal by this point, but it is true. My job is to show up early for a staff morning meeting, open up my classroom, make sure all is in order for the day, cut a few of my co-workers off in the copy room, and clog up the whole system with worksheets. I must do all of this with a smile on my face, a tranquilness of attitude as benign as a cyst. Now sometimes this is easy, or at least easily mistaken to be so due to the fact that "comatose" is about as calm as one can get.
Somehow, someway, however, I do manage to find my way to school, breakfast in hand to avoid adding "murderer" to my lists of fatal flaws. I open my classroom door, straighten all the desks up, symbolizing a mental putting to order, then reach to let students filter in. They too are conspicuously quiet on these Monday mornings. Then a genuine smile dawns because I know why.
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