There once was a woman who DID NOT like ordinary days.
She wanted hoopla and fanfare.
Bluster and rah-rah.
Ordinary meant colorless and ho-hum.
Stodgy and flat.
Who would ever ever want that?
But along came some very un-ordinary days.
She found herself smack dab in the middle of them.
For a very very long time.
Like more than 350 of these un-ordinary ones in a whole, long, very confusing row.
But there was no hoopla or fanfare.
Bluster or rah-rah.
There was strangeness and head-scratching.
Veiled faces and pandemonium.
She sat down one day on her ordinary couch
in her ordinary house
after a very ordinary breakfast and thought for just a minute and a half or so.
About all those ordinary days she had not liked.
The ones with laughter.
Friendship.
Lunch hours.
Stadium seats.
Picnics.
Hugs.
Lemonade stands.
Conference rooms.
Smiles.
Carpools.
Sunday school.
How silly of her? Not to like them.
She found that she could not wait until she could have just one of them again.
Just one. Count them. ONE. Ordinary day.
A regular sun-up to sun-down.
But on her ordinary couch
in her ordinary house
she thought for another minute and a half or so.
About all these un-ordinary days in a row.
Would she want them back?
Would she say “good riddance?”
Would she find that some of them were just ordinary after all?
Gardening.
The Dolly Mama 