Tuesday comes from Old English Tīwesdæg, meaning “day of Tīw.” Tīw was a Germanic god of war, equivalent to the Norse Týr and the Roman Mars. Týr is most famous in Norse mythology for losing his right hand to the wolf Fenrir—a brave act, certainly, but not one that has any relevance to a modern Tuesday morning meeting.
The chain is long and winding: Latin dies Martis (day of Mars) → interpreted by Germanic tribes as the day of Tīw → worn down over centuries into Tuesday. This is a fascinating etymological journey for a linguist. It is a complete waste of time for anyone trying to learn English.
Why should a student in Shanghai, São Paulo, or Seoul know that Tuesday is named after a one-handed Norse war god? Why should anyone have to decode a compound of Tīw + day to understand that this is the second day of the working week? The answer is: they should not. The word Tuesday communicates nothing about its position in the week, its function, or its relationship to the other days.
Consider how English learners encounter the days. They see seven words. Five of them end with -day, so that seems to be the pattern. But Mon- (moon), Tues- (war god), Wednes- (chief god), Thurs- (thunder god), Fri- (goddess of love)—these prefixes have nothing to do with each other and nothing to teach about sequence. The learner must memorize them as rote vocabulary, with no pattern to lean on. This is bad design.
A numbered system is self-evident. Week One, Week Two, Week Three—the pattern tells you everything you need to know. No gods. No missing hands. Just clarity.
Our Recommendation: Week Two. Retire the war god. Count forward instead.