Basking in a glorious Tuesday nap time after two brilliant, springlike weekdays at the playground I can finally say it without screaming it:
Sunday is the day I look at the piles of stuff all over the house and wonder, “Does everyone have piles of stuff all over the house?” And, “Does everybody let their clean laundry languish in baskets, pulling out shirts and underwear as necessary, sometimes for days?” And if so, do you just hide all the crap right before we come over?
On Sunday I think about how I won’t start teaching again for maybe seven or eight years, and a 45-year old rookie teacher is a helluva lot less charming than a 27-year old outdoor naturalist was. __
Sundays, I notice ominous odd lumps and brown parts on bits of my body that I’d ignored all week. Sunday I wonder if I’ll ever get that wart removed or trim my toenails.
Sunday, every chore I complete is dwarfed by the stack of chores left unfinished. The cute lemon tree I planted is in danger of succumbing to the weeds and ivy all around it. By the time the dishwasher is emptied, there are enough dirties waiting on the counter to fill it twice over: the week’s crusty plates all piled up for Sunday.
On Sunday, I wonder if I’m still a good friend. Everyone’s so busy with their own families and concerns now. Will we ever again just sit on the stoop with a cuppa and chat for hours about nothing in particular? Sing “King of the Road” to an out-of-tune guitar with the neighborhood kids in the yard, just to hear 7-year old voices bellow the line “I AIN’T GOT NO CIGARETTES”? Run out for midnight milkshakes at the drop of a hat? Be there to help a friend through an ER visit, or a breakup, or a life crisis? Sunday tells me that intense, supportive, 20-something-style friendship probably won’t ever happen again.
So I don’t like Sundays much.
But then Monday hits, and I’m back at the playground with Boo. Running with her pack of 4-year olds, she teaches me how to enjoy myself again. Monday, I connect again with my friends, and Monday I get on top of the laundry, finally. (Although the folded baskets still await replacement into their respective drawers for days. How do y’all cope?)
Sunday is a hurricane and Monday is my anchor.