Sunday has become my least favorite day of the week. It’s generally my only day of the week to sleep in, but then I feel guilty when I do because there are probably a million other things I should be doing instead…like yard work or cleaning out pet cages or something equally exciting.
Sunday is usually our grocery shopping and errand running day. Yes, I know that buying food is important because keeping Steve fed is vital to the well being of everyone in our household, but often it seems like a waste of an otherwise beautiful morning or afternoon.
Sunday is the beginning of my work week. Unfortunately, Sundays at the library are really, really slow and boring. (And usually hot this time of year because they insist on turning off the A/C for the weekend, and by late Sunday evening I feel like I’m being cooked.) Some Sundays are so dull that it almost makes me wish for a cranky or crazy patron once in a while to liven up my Sunday evening. There’s nothing like having to call campus police on some punk kid to pass a bit of time.
I hate Sundays because Ken and the kids are at home, and I’m not.
I remember as a kid that Sundays meant big family dinners with homemade pasta, seeing my friends at church, visits to my grandparents, trips to the Memphis Kiddie Park, or the Cleveland Zoo, or a ballgame at Cleveland Stadium with dad. I miss those Sundays. Those Sundays were good for the soul.
I’m sure that not every Sunday was like that when I was a child, but those are the only ones I remember. I sometimes worry about what my children’s Sunday memories will be…