I figured this was my day to do whatever I pleased, so I finished that novel so I could return it to the library. The Muse woke up grumbling that she had an early meeting I hadn’t heard about. I would have at least had her coffee waiting for her had I known.

I drove her over to the Metro to save her the ten minute walk, then stopped at two different libraries returning books. I arrived at Tony The Mechanic’s place before he opened, so I circled around for fifteen minutes before dropping off the car. I walked home from there, feeling rather special because it was my birthday, but noticing how very, very ordinary this Monday morning felt. I nodded to the yard debris pick up guy. He gestured back.

Home, sweating through my collar from the mile or so uphill humid hike, I turned on the air conditioning and closed all the windows. I hated to seal myself in, but I felt I had no real choice. Once sealed, the day began feeling extremely ordinary, as if it had a head cold and its ears were stopped up.

I got the laundry done and managed against heavy opposition to create and consume two meals. I prepped the veg for supper and The Muse arrived about an hour earlier than usual. She insisted upon finishing prep for supper, but other than that switch, the day proved ordinary. Extremely so.

Sometimes, when I’m loading up the recycling to take it out to the curb on Monday afternoon, I’ll run into some complication. Not today. Occasionally, I’ll finish a book that I’m certain will stick sideways in my memory forever. Not today.

I spoke with my daughter and I spoke with my son, and that doesn’t happen every day. I received a few best wishes on the occasion of my birthday, and that doesn’t happen every day. The Muse offered to take me out to supper and I declined. That doesn’t happen every day.

Even the most extraordinary day seems imbedded in an awful lot of ordinary, extremely ordinary. How much difference needs to appear before the ordinary flips into extraordinary? One second’s worth? An hour? What?

Let the record show that my birthday this year fell on an extremely ordinary Monday, with nothing save my presence, I suppose, distinguishing it from any other, and nothing particularly special about my presence here today, either. I have been blessed today, my presence recognized by the yard debris guy, family, and friends, none of whom intruded on the near perfection of such an extremely ordinary day.

©2013 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: Working, Writing, Living