Sunday

Sunday is the longest day of the week by far. Some would claim Monday–and understandably so–but I think they choose Monday for the same reason most people choose their politics: because that's what mom and dad believed. If you hear enough people complain about Monday, surely you're bound to believe it's the most terrible of days. I myself tend to think of Wednesdays as nearly unendurable. "Hump Day," that's what it's called because we've finally "reached" the top of the hill and are about to coast down the other side. In my experience there is no coasting. Thursday and Friday are quite often as tedious as Monday and Tuesday, only this time we feel the pull of the weekend so perhaps we're a little less patient than we ought to be. "Hump Day," doesn't feel like I've mounted the hill, or the week; rather it feels as though I've been mounted. So to speak.

I've always struggled with Sunday. Thankfully my sister and I were not raised in a religious home, but our very Mormon community made sure we could not escape the doldrums imposed by the shadow of the church, which was right across the street. Most of our closest childhood friends were churchgoers, which left us a little curious about what went on in there. When questioned, they had little to offer, although quite often they'd sick their parents on my parents, insisting that Casey and I found our lives empty and were requesting religious direction. Hardly! We merely wanted to hang out with our friends, who weren't allowed to play on Sunday. Imagine, half the weekend wasted like that. And they thought we were misguided? Besides, no one I knew seemed very excited to be going. If God truly did live in there, shouldn't the people invited to one of his parties be a little more enthusiastic? My perception of church was always a negative one, and from what I saw of the people plodding up and down our hill to and from their church, I wasn't the only one who shared that sentiment.

Sunday as a day of rest never made much sense to me either. As a child, Sunday was a day for homework and chores and being cooped up. As an adult, it's much the same. Sunday is the day I do my laundry, plan the week's menu, go grocery shopping and run errands; On Sunday I make yogurt (which I've dubbed Yo-Curt) and bake bread, and sometimes, if I'm feeling motivated, cookies. Sunday is when the apartment gets cleaned, the carpets vacuumed, the toilets and showers scrubbed, the floors mopped. They say there is no rest for the wicked, and if that's true, Sunday is the wickedest day of my week.

Sunday feels too short, like there's not enough time to accomplish what needs to be accomplished, and even less time to enjoy doing the things I like doing: reading, writing, watching movies, walking with Duncan, talking with friends. Sunday is the day I feel the most stressed, simply on the basis of it being Sunday, the day before Monday, when despite the hump of Wednesday, it's all downhill.

But this Sunday I'm taking it at my own pace. Yes, the laundry is currently churning in the washer and drier, yes I am perplexed about what to make for dinner for the week and how I'm going to prepare my "famous" cranberry relish for dinner on Thursday, yes the sun is shining and it's far too warm–almost hot, even–to be sitting inside, but I don't care. This is the Sunday before Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, and I'm content to sip my rooibos with honey, to watch the cats follow the footprints of the sun across the floors, to open the windows and enjoy the air coming through my office. I'm going to tend to the things that need tending to, but I'm going to do it slowly with many breaks. And that's going to be okay because when the day is done, Duncan and I will take a walk in the cool dusk and I'll be as content as I could ask to be.

“If God hadn't rested on Sunday, He would have had time to finish the world.” –Gabriel Garcia Marquez