Sundays

I don’t like Sundays. I’ve never liked Sundays. The devout are made pious. The sinners plot their next transgression. Heavy Sunday food caries the curse of daylight drowsiness and if you nod, time passes at an uneven pace. It interrupts your night sleep, leaves you exhausted and unprepared for the work week.
Sunday doldrums sneak up on you after a busy Saturday and festive evening. The news summarizes the disasters of the past week, the daunting intent of the week to come, the futility of impossible hopes, the relentlessness of Time.
Sunday’s children “full of grace” or “ blithe and good” assert their dominance over lesser creatures like ourselves. They gird us into resistance. They undercut the peace.
In the drowsy atmosphere of Sunday afternoons, I sleep too profoundly—or too shallowly. I dream too deeply. I awake befuddled.
I’m happy when the onset of the new week unleashes it’s dominance.

When I was a child, my family would often go for “a drive” on Sunday, up the mountain for fresh air and Nature. I had no siblings to cavort with, no friends willing to be confined in a car on an aimless journey, with geeky grown-ups controlling the radio station. Sometimes we’d drive to a small airport to watch planes take off. This was my father’s idea of excitement, not mine. It wasn’t that I didn’t dream of embarking on an adventure far from my small town and modest life like an airplane ascending into the unknown, but this was a dream too monumental for a stifling Sunday, and it was too frustrating to watch others test their wings.
I do not like Sundays.