Sundays are terrific. You can run errands or be lazy. You can go to church or sleep in. You can watch a game or read a book. You can eat brunch or work out. You can do nothing at all—or all of the above!
In case it isn’t obvious from that ringing endorsement, I like Sundays. I don’t want anything else that I’m about to say make it seem like my love for Sundays is lacking. I refuse to be pigeonholed as some kind of anti-Sunday zealot!
Disclaimers notwithstanding, I’ve always had a very particular problem with Sundays. Ever since I was a little boy, Sundays—specifically, Sunday evenings—have been unfailingly accompanied by what might best be called . . . a mild sense of dread.
Whether when I was in school (even when I liked school) or when I was working (even when I liked my job), there was this tiny feeling of tension, invariably spawned when the shadows grew long and the sun began to disappear into the horizon. The darkness was a signal that I would have to think about responsibilities again in a few, short hours.
Sometimes that feeling could properly be called “worry,” but not often. Monday’s obstacles weren’t necessarily things I didn’t want to face. Even when I relished those challenges, that Sunday-night feeling was still there.
Most of the time, it was merely the awareness of constraint. Of a lack of freedom. Or, at least, a lack of preference. It was the knowledge that, come Monday morning, I would rather be somewhere else, with someone else, doing something else.