Today, I’m doing my adaptation of the emotion that the songwriter must have been trying to evoke when she wrote “Rainy Days and Mondays always gets me down“. I actually like rainy days and Mondays; it’s Sundays that are posing a bit of a problem. Sundays are supposed to mark a departure from the routine of the week. Largely unscripted, Sunday is an opportunity for our family to just relax, be with each other, and nestle a bit. Given a lighter schedule, I can crochet, pick up a book or my nook, do a bit of laundry if I’m so inclined, polish my toes, cook a Sunday dinner – or not, listen to music louder or longer than I usually do, let hubby and the kids sleep in a bit later than usual, and get out of my PJs when I’m good and ready. These are things that I love about Sunday. I just don’t think that this part of Sunday is quite long enough. It seems that it comes to a screeching halt without my asking. I dread the feelings of melancholy that sweep over me, rather abruptly, once the most exciting, but simple part, is over. The pending return to normalcy and routine gives me a swift kick in the rear to remind me of what now needs attending so the “work” week can get off to a smooth start. Go figure.
Indeed, there’s no day quite like Sunday. It seems to be the most civil and tempered of the two-day weekend. Family dinners, church hats, and football games are but a small part of the color scheme for several on this day of the week. Admittedly, this is a day for relaxation, reflection and grounding, and re-upping on depleted stores of energy, drive, and determination so that the upcoming week will be even better and more productive than the last. As such, Sundays very definitively, play an important role in making life that much more interesting, balanced, whole…and I want much more of it, minus the Super Bowl.
Life As An Art Form 