Monday Morning at the Office

Sandra Bruxvoort
2 min readMar 7, 2016


Monday morning.

I jolt to my blaring alarm, fumbling snooze several times, and then I lift myself out of bed to conquer the day. An act of false courage. I shuffle over to my closet and stare in. I stare in, wearily scanning my wardrobe, completely aware that I’m over it all. I’m over it all, and I’m screaming on the inside at what a coward I am.

After throwing myself together, I hug and kiss goodbye those who matter most to me. I wish I could spend a little more time lying intimately in his arms—feeling the sun warm our skin, illuminating the room around us.

My dog looks up at me in a panic. She hopes I’ll be back soon. She sure does miss me when I’m gone. In fact, it feels like a lifetime when I’m not there—each and every time. And when I kneel down and put her whiskered face in my hands, I stare into her eyes and notice all of the white hairs that seem to have suddenly sprung up around them. I wonder when she started getting so old, and then I die a little more on the inside.

The tollway south is the typical shit show. Another trio of luxury cars involved in an accident. Most of them were in too great a hurry to go park their cars outside their employers for the day. I remember that it costs me about $7 in toll fees to drive my car to and from work each day—twenty miles one way. Then, after an hour, I’m somehow sitting in the parking lot with no recollection of most of the details of my commute.

Checked out. Preoccupied. Dissatisfied. And dejected. But here I am, trudging through The Dream.

I made it another week.

The next ten hours are a blur. I ask a little about weekends and speak to mine even less. I down five cups of coffee and steal glances at the sunshine peeking through the blinds. I’m behind on too much work. The days and weeks and months are filled with deceptive high-importance, high-urgency matters. So I get settled in at my desk and stare like a bug at the giant Apple screen which seems to always reflect some familiar, sullen visage. I think it’s me.

Pretty soon it’s dark, and he’s texting and asking if I’ve forgotten about him. I escape to my car and go north, thinking about where we should go for dinner. Dinner is quick and I’m back in bed doing work on my laptop, reluctantly stowing it away after a time. I pass out at some point, again waking to the shrill of my alarm.

And it’s Tuesday, rinse and repeat.



Sandra Bruxvoort

Shares tips on everything from writing to living a purposeful life.