If you are a living, breathing human who attended an educational institution at some point in your life, then you’re familiar with that awful sinking feeling that rolls through around 5PM every Sunday. You’re having a grand old time, watching football or playing Wii Badminton or reading, or whatever you enjoy doing in your cherished spare time and then, like clockwork, the doom sets in. A whole new week is about to unfold before you. You’ve barely had time to process the one you just finished and then — Oh Hey — yet another week is here. There’s so much to be done: homework, clean your room so you can actually see the floor, put away laundry from three weeks ago. But alas, you have one disc left of Season 3 of Dawson’s Creek, so all that stuff can wait. And it seems that as long as you’re chillin by the creek with Dawson and Joey, Monday morning isn’t actually closing in on you.
It’s funny, right? How it always came as this great shock? I thought when I graduated college and became a working lady, that twisted feeling would dissipate. And for a while it did! It was like, oh awesome, I have no homework so I can just sleep til 1, never make my bed, have a bagel delivered to my door and, if I’m really lucky, make no actual contact with the outside world for an entire day. A true feat. But then slowly I realized that Sunday nights haven’t gone away, they’ve simply taken a new shape, much like a Dementor Patronus (Harry Potter? Anyone? No? Whatever.)
These musings were inspired by yet another Sunday night, where I lay exhausted in bed but unable to sleep. I start to play that game where I’m like, “Well if I fall asleep now I”ll get a solid seven hours,” and then seven becomes six, six becomes five, and well, you can see where this is going. I can’t help but wonder (sorry, subliminal Carrie Bradshaw undertones) why I still feel this anxiety despite the fact that as a young urban professional, I’m given full permission to 100% enjoy my weekends. They are all mine and no longer tainted by buzzkills like reading or dioramas or an interpretive reports on the meaning behind LeAnn Womack’s, “I Hope You Dance.”
As the daughter of a psychotherapist, I obviously have a professional-adjacent opinion about why Sunday’s continue to scorn me so. I’ve never been good with change. Endings? No, thanks. Beginnings? Later gator. But each Sunday signifies both an ending and a beginning, which is just like a change explosion-overload-parade-extravaganza! I think I just managed to psychoanalyze myself. Thanks, mom!
Point is, Sunday’s aren’t going anywhere. They will always be a thing. But the only comfort that finally allows me to get a few hours of shut-eye as Sunday morphs into Monday (aside from sheer exhaustion) is the hope that maybe this week will bring a good kind of change. Maybe I’ll do something awesome at work! Maybe I’ll meet someone new and exciting! Or maybe I’ll just have a streak of great hair days! There are endless possibilities, so instead of being standoffish towards them, perhaps I should start to flirt with them.
What’s around the river bend? Not sure, Pocahontas! But the Monday sun is rising, and I’m about to find out.
You can read more from Marisa Kabas on her blog.