Dear Tuesday,

You’re a slacker in a Type A world. I admire that.

You remind me there’s always time to answer that urgent email tomorrow, or the next day, or the next—and still get it done this week. The library book that’s due on Friday can sit on the kitchen counter all day. The chicken breast I intended to bake on Sunday? There’s still plenty of time before it turns green. Tuesday, your optimism inspires me.

I applaud your low expectations and lack of ambition. You exert none of that weekend pressure on me to spend a fab evening in the arts district. Or get together with people who get together. Or go see the hot new movie they’re talking about. Nobody’s going—it’s Tuesday.

On Tuesday, there’s a drawer full of clean underwear, because laundry day is Monday.

Not that I need clean clothes for you—you’re all about pajamas. You’re my favorite for watching paint dry, while daydreaming about the things I’ll accomplish by the weekend. My future is bright. You’ve never scolded me for the way my week turned out.

Thanks for being you, Tuesday. Never nagging me to hurry up. If I neglect my writing chores, you say, “No problem, finish up tomorrow.” If I hunker down and write for four hours you say, “Girl, you’re ahead of schedule. Take the rest of the week off. ”

The best present you give me is Tuesday night yoga class. And if I can’t get there because I didn’t get out of bed, and besides my gas tank is on E, since I put off buying gas again—the same yoga class is repeated on Thursday night. It’s so Tuesday of you to give me a redo.

You’re a win-win situation.

Love,
Your Biggest Fan

While I’m reading, a sentence will grab me and force me to stop. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life.

*****

"You rode your passions down the wrong street."
———Keija Parssinen
——--The Ruins of Us

In college, I worked with a mentor who knew me as worthy, smart, and talented. She told me I was a writer. I’m aware of this ony because my best friend witnessed the relationship. I don’t remember a thing about it.
I got excited when I learned my inability to remember was due to a treatable condition—dissociative amnesia. I followed my love of research and learned more. Research revealed that science had methods to reclaim lost memories. Further research led me to a therapist who taught me a writing exercise to communicate with my subconscious.

Instead of the worthy, smart, talented college Dawn I’d hoped to meet, the exercise produced a spectral child—The Little Girl I used to be.

The Little Girl who cowered.

Look at her. You see it, don’t you? How her spunky pose misleads you. Her innocent face bleeds torture. Razor strop. Headaches. Ridicule. Empty stomach. Roaches. Mice. Nightmares. Predators. Alone. Alone. Alone.

You see it, don’t you? How she lures me into dark corners.

Dear Tuesday,

You’re a slacker in a Type A world. I admire that.

You remind me there’s always time to answer that urgent email tomorrow, or the next day, or the next—and still get it done this week. The library book that’s due on Friday can sit on the kitchen counter all day. The chicken breast I intended to bake on Sunday? There’s still plenty of time before it turns green. Tuesday, your optimism inspires me.

I applaud your low expectations and lack of ambition. You exert none of that weekend pressure on me to spend a fab evening in the arts district. Or get together with people who get together. Or go see the hot new movie they’re talking about. Nobody’s going—it’s Tuesday.

On Tuesday, there’s a drawer full of clean underwear, because laundry day is Monday.

Not that I need clean clothes for you—you’re all about pajamas. You’re my favorite for watching paint dry, while daydreaming about the things I’ll accomplish by the weekend. My future is bright. You’ve never scolded me for the way my week turned out.

Thanks for being you, Tuesday. Never nagging me to hurry up. If I neglect my writing chores, you say, “No problem, finish up tomorrow.” If I hunker down and write for four hours you say, “Girl, you’re ahead of schedule. Take the rest of the week off. ”

The best present you give me is Tuesday night yoga class. And if I can’t get there because I didn’t get out of bed, and besides my gas tank is on E, since I put off buying gas again—the same yoga class is repeated on Thursday night. It’s so Tuesday of you to give me a redo.

You’re a win-win situation.

Love,

Your Biggest Fan

(With appreciation for letting me wait till Friday to send you a love letter.)