Sunday is my most dismal day of the week. Whether its Sundays puritanical past, filled with duty and obligation, the entire day seems blessed with a gilded morbidity, even though worldwide fewer people die on Sundays than any other day of the week

The first day of the work week, Monday, has an optimistic verve to it despite the implication of four more days of commuting and anxious financial survival. Tuesday is a favorite of mine. It’s busy, cluttered, and inattentive. People only think they’re getting things done when in fact what they’re experiencing is an existential pressure to produce. Whether goals are accomplished or issues resolved, Tuesday remains for the most part an illusion of effort.

Sunday’s muted television programming is pilloried with repetitive news and interviews with officials whose positions we’re already aware of. Never does Sunday drag some nobody from the unwashed opinionated and ask them what they think of our latest involvement in Wherevereverland. The speaker always has a pre-determined position, unshakable even in the face of mediocre interrogation from a host paid to be diplomatic rather than a speaker of truth to power.

Sunday’s only devotion to the visual expectations of the television viewer is NFL football. Whether you’re a fan or not, the excited confidence of the announcers voice adds tinsel to Sundays dull wreath of viewer agony. When the Super Bowl credits roll, Sunday viewers are suddenly faced with the cold winds of nothing to watch until baseball rises from the damp bulkhead of volatile spring weather. By then, most parishoners are outside, doing things on Sunday they wouldn’t do any other day of the week. Sundays in the spring are spent fixing things, moving things, picking things up and thinking about color, sunburn, and short sleeves.

Sundays in the summer are better but not by much. Riding my motorcycle on Saturday is different from riding my motorcycle on Sunday. No matter the weather, the asphalt is less resilient, more unforgiving. The end of the weekend moves above the the clouds and soon the sun sets and people shuffle inside.

Even if the sun is shining, Sunday can tarnish the patina of the most polished expectations. Thats why whether in the sand or snow,rain or heat, Sundays grim demeanor always hovers above. I’m either leaving or regretting or just being on Sunday. I cannot help but mind my patience as I busy myself with unnecessary chores just to pacify the anxiety this awful day of the week exerts on all my impatient emotions.

This entry was posted on Sunday, March 27th, 2011 at 9:18 am and is filed under Stuff I know. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.