There are those who often wax poetic about the comforting easiness of Sundays. There are songs about it, poems about it, and I’m sure even a book or two about it (aside from The Bible, which clearly doesn’t emphasize the carefree fun often associated with this seventh day). And while there are those who aim to market Sunday as the cherry on top of a week-long cake, I’m not falling victim to the calendar’s clever PR team. I’m aware of how mediocre, even depressing this day is, and I can’t recall one in recent memory that wasn’t at least somewhat marred by its unfortunate position between the Day of Drinking and The First Day of Work.
First things first, how many Sundays are spent hungover? And I’m talking about the kind that, when you wake up, immediately makes you question whether or not you actually died the night before of alcohol poisoning and are in some kind of purgatory, cleansing yourself with pain before you can join the Land of the Dead. These are the states of mind we often find ourselves on Sunday mornings, and there is no buffer day between us and the work week — we are going to have to spend the entire day recovering and eating Hot Fries just to get back to a semi-functional state for the drudgery ahead. It’s not like Saturday, where if you wake up and feel kind of iffy, you can recover over the day and still enjoy a fruitful weekend evening. If you are responsible enough with your Saturday evening after you come back to full life, you can even enjoy a fulfilling brunch the next day with all of your senses intact and your wits about you.
And speaking of which, I don’t know who decided that brunch was any kind of cure for a real hangover. Sure, if someone brings you eggs and a cup of coffee while you lay, completely infirm, under a blanket — it might be okay. But actually having to go out into society and deal with an overcrowded, criminally overpriced, and unforgivingly loud restaurant at 11:30 with seven other people who apparently have livers made of solid steel and feel no after effects of last night’s debauchery is a challenge, to say the least. I cannot be the only person who has spent an entire brunch, at the corner of the table, sunglasses on the entire time, occasionally nodding generally towards the conversation and looking up only to ask for a refill of coffee, and if the waitress could be so merciful, a couple Tylenol with codeine.
But let’s say we actually managed to take care of ourselves on Saturday, and were able to enjoy our Sunday breakfast, and maybe even go out and about and do things — the enjoyment will never be pure, as you’ll always know, in the back of your mind, that tomorrow is going to suck. You might want to go join your friends for dinner (hey, you’re all puttering around the city anyway) but you’d better not have too much fun. Keep in mind that for every minute of actual fun you have on Sunday evening/night, you shall pay threefold on Monday morning. The only real, proper way to spend Sunday afternoons is to sit somewhere near the window while it rains (it always rains on Sunday afternoons, in this world) with a tea or hot chocolate and an awesome book/BBC series marathon. Any other way is just too much stimulation, and will cost you dearly come the work week.
I guess what I’m saying here is f-ck Sunday. I am done having a second weekend day that I can never fully enjoy, one that serves as nothing more than a paper-thin buffer between Saturday and real life. I insist that, from now on, all weekends be three days long, so we can just reserve all our day hatred for Monday and Monday alone. It’s ugly and thinks it’s cute, and we never liked it anyway.